CHAPTER IX
HOW I HAD WORD WITH THE LADY JOAN BRANDON FOR THE THIRD TIME
The moon was well up when, striking out from the gloom of the woods, Ireached a wall very high and strong, whereon moss and lichens grew;skirting this, I presently espied that I sought--a place where thecoping was gone with sundry of the bricks, making here a gap very aptto escalade; and here, years agone, I had been wont to climb this wallto the furtherance of some boyish prank on many a night such as this.Awhile stood I staring up at this gap, then, seizing hold of massybrickwork, I drew myself up and dropped into a walled garden. Herewere beds of herbs well tended and orderly, and, as I went, I breathedan air sweet with the smell of thyme and lavender and a thousand otherscents, an air fraught with memories of sunny days and joyous youth,insomuch that I clenched my hands and hasted from the place. Pastsombre trees, mighty of girth and branch, I hurried; past still pools,full of a moony radiance, where lilies floated; past marble fauns anddryads that peeped ghost-like from leafy solitudes; past sundial andcarven bench, by clipped yew-hedges and winding walks until, screenedin shadow, I paused to look upon a great and goodly house; and as Istood there viewing it over from terrace-walk to gabled roof, I heard adistant clock chime ten.
The great house lay very silent and dark, not a light showed save inone lower chamber. So I waited patiently, my gaze on this light,while, ever and anon, the leaves about me stirred in the softnight-wind with a sound like one that sighed mournfully.
Thus stayed I some while; howbeit, the light yet aglow and my patiencewaning, I stole forward, keeping ever in the shadows, and, ascendingthe terrace, came where grew ivy, very thick and gnarled, overspreadingthis wing of the house. Groping amid the leaves I found that Isought--a stout staple deep-driven between the bricks with above thisanother and yet other again, the which formed a sort of ladder whereby,as a boy, I had been wont to come and go by night or day as I listed.
Forthwith I began to climb by means of these staples and the ivy, untilat last my fingers grasped the stone sill of a window; and now, thelattice being open, I contrived (albeit it with much ado) to clamberinto the room. It was a fair-sized chamber, and the moonlight, fallingathwart the floor, lit upon a great carven bed brave with tapestriedhangings. Just now the silken curtains were up-drawn and upon the bedI saw a bundle of garments all ribands, laces and the like, the which,of themselves, gave me sudden pause. From these my gaze wandered towhere, against the panelling, hung a goodly rapier complete with girdleand slings, its silver hilt, its guards and curling quillons bright inthe moonbeams. So came I and, reaching it down, drew it from thescabbard and saw the blade very bright as it had been well cared for.And graven on the forte of the blade was the Conisby blazon and thelegend:
ROUSE ME NOT.
Now as I stood watching the moonbeams play up and down the long blade,I heard the light, quick tread of feet ascending the stairs without anda voice (very rich and sweetly melodious) that brake out a-singing, andthe words it sang these:
"A poor soul sat sighing by a green willow tree With hand on his bosom, his head on his knee, Sighing Willow, willow, willow! O willow, willow, willow! And O the green willow my garland shall be!"
Nearer came the singing while I stood, sword in hand, waiting; the songended suddenly and the sweet voice called:
"O Marjorie, wake me betimes, I must be abroad with the sunto-morrow--good-night, sweet wench!"
I crouched in the curtains of the great bed as the latch clicked andthe room filled with the soft glow of a candle; a moment's silence,then:
"O Marjorie, I'll wear the green taffety in the morning. Nay indeed,I'll be my own tirewoman to-night."
The light was borne across the room; then coming softly to the door Iclosed it and, setting my back against it, leaned there. At the smallsound I made she turned and, beholding me, shrank back, and I saw thecandlestick shaking in her hand ere she set it down upon the carvedpress beside her.
"Who is it--who is it?" she questioned breathlessly, staring at mybruised and swollen features.
"A rogue you had dragged lifeless to the pillory!"
"You?" she breathed. "You! And they set you in the pillory? 'Twas byno order of me."
"'Tis no matter, lady, here was just reward for a rogue," says I. "Butnow I seek Sir Richard--"
"Nay indeed--indeed you shall not find him here."
"That will I prove for myself!" says I, and laid hand on latch.
"Sir," says she in the same breathless fashion, "why will you notbelieve me? Seek him an you will, but I tell you Sir Richard sailedinto the Spanish Main two years since and was lost."
"Lost?" says I, feeling a tremor of apprehension shake me as I met hertruthful eyes. "Lost, say you--how lost?"
"He and his ship were taken by the Spaniards off Hispaniola."
"Taken?" I repeated, like one sore mazed. "Taken--off--Hispaniola?"And here, bethinking me of the cruel mockery of it all (should thisindeed be so) black anger seized me. "You lie to me!" I cried. "Ha,by God, you lie! An there be aught of justice in heaven then RichardBrandon must be here."
"Who are you?" she questioned, viewing me with the same wide-eyedstare. "Who are you--so fierce, so young, yet with whitened hair, andthat trembles at the truth? Who are you--speak?"
"You have lied to save him from me!" I cried. "You lie--ha, confess!"And I strode towards her, the long blade a-glitter in my quiveringgrasp.
"Would you kill me?" says she, all unflinching and with eyes that neverwavered. "Would you murder a helpless maid--Martin Conisby?" Therapier fell to the rug at my feet and lay there, my breath caught, andthus we stood awhile, staring into each other's eyes.
"Martin Conisby is dead!" says I at last.
For answer she pointed to the wall above my head and, looking thither,I saw the picture of a young cavalier, richly habited, who smiled downgrey-eyed and gentle-lipped, all care-free youth and gaiety; andbeneath this portrait ran the words:
MARTIN CONISBY, LORD WENDOVER. Aetat. 21.
"Madam," quoth I at last, turning my back on the picture, "Yon innocentwas whipped to death aboard a Spanish galleass years since, whereforeI, a poor rogue, come seeking his destroyer."
"Sir," says she, clasping her hands and viewing me with troubled eyes,"O sir--whom mean you?"
"One who, having slain the father, sold the son into slavery, to thehell of Spanish dungeon and rowing-bench, to stripes and shame andtorment, one the just God hath promised to my vengeance--I mean RichardBrandon."
"Ah--mercy of God--my father! Ah no, no--it cannot be! My father?Sure here is some black mistake."
"Being his daughter you should know 'tis very truth! Being a Brandonyou must know of the feud hath cursed and rent our families time out ofmind, the bitter faction and bloodshed!"
"Aye!" she murmured, "This I do know."
"Well, madam, five years agone, or thereabouts, my father falselyattainted of treason, died in his prison and I, drugged and trepannedaboard ship, was sold into the plantations, whence few return--andRichard Brandon, enriched by our loss and great at court, dreamed hehad made an end o' the Conisbys and that the feud was ended once andfor all."
"My lord," says she, proud head upflung, "I deny all this! Suchsuspicion, so base and unfounded, shameth but yourself. You have daredforce your way into my house at dead of night, and now--O now you wouldtraduce my absent father, charging him with shameful crimes--and thisto me, his daughter! Enough, I'll hear no more, begone ere I summon myservants and have you driven forth!" and, seizing the bell-rope thathung against the panelling, she faced me, her deep bosom heavingtempestuous, white hands clenched and scorning me with her eyes.
"Ring!" says I, and seated myself in a chair beside her great bed.
"Have you no shame?"
"None, madam, 'twas all whipped out o' me aboard the 'Esmeralda'galleass. Ring, madam! But I go not till I learn, once and for all,if Sir Richard be here or no."
Now at this she loosed the bell-rope very suddenly and, co
vering herface with her hands, stood thus awhile:
"God pity me!" says she at last in weeping voice. "I may not forgethow you saved me from--" Here a tremor seemed to shake her; then shespake again, yet now scarce above a whisper. "Your face hath lookedupon me night and morn these two years, and now--O Martin Conisby, wereyou but the man I dreamed you!"
"I'm a rogue new-broke from slavery!" says I.
"Aye," she cried suddenly, lifting her head and viewing me with new andbitter scorn, "and one that speaketh lies of an absent man!"
"Lies!" quoth I, choking on the word. "Lies, madam? Why then, howcometh my picture here--my coat of arms above the mantel yonder, theConisby 'scutcheon on your gates? What do you at Conisby Shene?"
Now in her look I saw a sudden doubt, a growing dread, her breathcaught and she shrank back to the panelled wall and leaned there, andever the trouble in her eyes grew. "Well, my lady?" I questioned,"Have ye no answer?"
"'Twas said ... I have heard ... the Conisbys were no more."
"Even so, how came Sir Richard by this, our house?"
"Nay--nay, I--I know little of my father's business--he was ever asilent man and I--have passed my days in London or abroad. Butyou--ah, tell me--why seek you my father?"
"That is betwixt him and me!"
"Was it--murder? Was it vengeance, my lord?" Here, as I made noanswer, she crosses over to me and lays one slender hand on myshoulder; whereat I would have risen but her touch stayed me. "Speak!"says she in a whisper. "Was it his life you sought?" Meeting the lookin her deep, soft eyes, I was silent for a while, finding no word, thendumbly I nodded. And now I felt her hand trembling on my shoulder ereit was withdrawn and, looking up, I saw she had clasped her hands andstood with head bowed like one in prayer: "O Martin Conisby," shewhispered, "now thank God that in His mercy He hath stayed thee frommurder!" So she stood awhile, then, crossing to the carven press, tookthence divers papers and set them before me. "Read!" she commanded.
So I examined these papers and found therein indisputable evidence thatmy journey here was vain indeed, that Sir Richard, sailing westward,had been taken by Spaniards off Hispaniola and carried away prisoner,none knew whither.
And in a while, having read these papers, I laid them by and rising,stumbled towards the open casement.
"Well, my lord?" says she in strange, breathless fashion, "And whatnow?"
"Why now," says I, wearily, "it seems my vengeance is yet to seek."
"Vengeance?" she cried, "Ah, God pity thee! Doth life hold for theenought better?"
"Nought!"
"Vengeance is a consuming fire!"
"So seek I vengeance!"
"O Martin Conisby, bethink you! Vengeance is but a sickness of themind--a wasting disease--"
"So seek I vengeance!"
"For him that questeth after vengeance this fair world can hold noughtbeside."
"So give me vengeance, nought else seek I of this world!"
"Ah, poor soul--poor man that might be, so do I pity thee!"
"I seek no man's pity."
"But I am a woman, so shall I pity thee alway!"
Now as I prepared to climb through the lattice she, beholding the swordwhere it yet lay, stooped and, taking it up, sheathed it. "This wasthine own once, I've heard," says she. "Take it, Martin Conisby, keepit clean, free from dishonour and leave thy vengeance to God."
"Not so!" says I, shaking my head. "I have my knife, 'tis weaponbetter suited to my rags!" So saying, I clambered out through thelattice even as I had come. Being upon the terrace, I glanced up tofind her leaning to watch me and with the moon bright on her face.
"Live you for nought but vengeance?" she questioned softly.
"So aid me God!" says I.
"So shall I pity thee alway, Martin Conisby!" she repeated, and sighed,and so was gone.
Then I turned, slow of foot, and went my solitary way.
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