CHAPTER XXIV
CHECK TO THE KING
The colloquy between Mary Tudor and Ursula Glynde had probably notlasted more than a few minutes.
To Wessex it seemed as if years had elapsed since he had closed the doorof the small inner room behind him, shutting out from his sight thebeautiful vision which had filled his soul with gladness.
Years! during which he had learnt chapter by chapter, the history ofwoman's frailty and deceit. Now, he suddenly felt old, all the buoyancyhad gone out of his life, and he was left worn and weary, with amillstone of shattered illusions hung around his neck.
It had come about so strangely.
She was not exquisite "Fanny," mysterious, elusive, after all. She wasLady Ursula Glynde.
Well! what mattered that?
The name first pronounced by the Queen's trenchant voice had gratedharshly on his ear. Why?
At first he could not remember.
Fanny or Ursula? Why not? The woman whom conventionality had in somesense ordained that he should marry. Why not?
Surely 'twas for him to thank conventionality for this kind decree.
But the Lady Ursula Glynde!
When did he last hear that name? Surely it was on that Spaniard's lipshalf an hour ago, accompanied by a thinly veiled, coarse jest and animpudent laugh.
But his "Fanny!"--that white-clad, poetic embodiment of his most exalteddreams! Those guileless blue eyes--or were they black?--that childlikelittle head so fitly crowned with gold!
No! no! _that_ was his "Fanny," not the other woman, whom the Queen waseven now upbraiding for immodest conduct.
Now she was speaking . . . stammering . . . denying nothing. . . . Wherewas that Ursula Glynde? . . . the other woman . . . she who was falseand wanton. . . . "Fanny" was pure and sweet and girlish. . . . Ursulaalone was to blame. Where was she?
"Has the Marquis de Suarez dared . . ."
It was her voice. Why did she name that man?
She knew him then? . . . had met him at East Molesey Fair? . . . she didnot deny it . . . she only asked if he had dared . . . whilst theSpaniard had said, with a flippant shrug of the shoulders, that theacquaintanceship had ripened into . . . friendship.
Wessex' whole soul rebelled at this suggestion. He had but one desire,to see her, to ask her--she would tell him the truth, and he wouldbelieve whatever she told him with those dear red lips of hers, which hehad kissed.
He felt quite calm, still, firm in his faith, and sustained by his greatlove. He went to the door and found it locked.
A trifling matter surely, but why was it locked?
She had been upset, confused, ere the Queen had come. She would notallow him the great joy of proclaiming to all who were there to hear,that he had wooed and won her. Once more there came that torturingquestion: Why?
So averse was she to his appearing before the Queen, that she had lockedthe door for fear that the exuberant happiness which was in him, shouldcause him to precipitate a climax which she obviously dreaded.
Why? Why? Why?
But he would respect her wishes, and though his very sinews ached withthe longing to break down that door, to see her then and there, not toendure for another second this maddening agony which made his templesthrob and his brain reel, he made no attempt to touch the bolts again.
Just then there came the Queen's final words to her:
"The Marquis de Suarez has all the faults of his race. We warn you tocease this intercourse which doth no credit to your modesty."
And she--his love, his cherished dream--had said nothing in reply.Wessex strained his every sense to hear, but there came nothing save--
"Your Majesty . . ."
And then the peremptory--
"Silence, wench!" from irate Mary Tudor.
And then nothing more.
She had gone evidently, bearing her humiliation, leaving him in doubtand fear, to endure a torture of the soul which well-nigh unmanned him.
She must have known that he had heard, and yet she said nothing.
To the Duke of Wessex, the most favoured man in England, the grandseigneur with one foot on the throne, the idea of suffering a falseaccusation in silence was a thing absolutely beyondcomprehension--weakness which must have its origin in guilt.
Human nature is so constituted that man is bound to measure hisfellow-creatures by his own standard; else why doth charity think noevil? The goodness and purity which comes from the soul is alwaysmirrored in the soul of others. Evil sees evil everywhere. Pride doesnot understand humility.
Thus in Wessex' heart!
Had his sovereign liege--that sovereign being a man--dared to put fortha base insinuation against him, he would have forgotten the kingshipand struck the man, who impeached his honour, fearlessly in the face.Nothing but conscious guilt would have stayed his avenging hand, orsilenced the indignant words on his lips.
Of course he could not see what was actually passing: he could butsurmise, and a fevered, tortured brain is an uncertain counsellor.
He could not understand Ursula's attitude. The girlish weakness, thesubmission to the highest authority in the land born of centuries oftradition, the maidenly bashfulness at the monstrosity of theaccusation, were so many little feminine traits which at this momentappeared to him as so many admissions of guilt.
He would have loved them at other times: loved them in _her_ especially,because they were so characteristic of her simple nature, bred in thecountry, half woman and wholly child. Just now they were repellent tohis pride, incomprehensible to his manhood, and for the first time hisfaith began to waver.
Pity him, my masters! for he suffered intensely.
Pity him, mistress, for he loved her with his whole soul.
Nay! do not sneer. Love-at-first-sight is a great and wonderful thing,and, more than that, it is real--genuinely, absolutely, completely real.But it is not immutable. It is the basis, the solid foundation of whatwill become the lasting passion. In itself it has one greatweakness--the absence of knowledge.
Wessex loved with his soul, but not yet with his reason. How could he?Reason is always the last to fall into line with the other slaves ofpassion. At present he worshipped in her that which he had conceived herto be, and the very sublimity of this whole-hearted love was a bar tothe existence of perfect trust and faith.
There had been a long silence whilst Ursula mounted the stairs andfinally disappeared, but the rustle of her silk skirt did not penetratethrough the solid panels of the closet door. Wessex did not know whethershe had gone, or had been ordered to wait until Her Majesty had quittedthe room. He wondered now how soon he would meet her, how she would lookwhen she finally released him from this torture-chamber. He knew that hewould not upbraid her, and feared but one awful eventuality, his ownweakness if she were guilty.
Love such as his oft makes cowards of men.
To the Cardinal's poisoned shaft he paid but little heed. The weary soulhad come to the end of its tether. It could not suffer more.
Beyond that lay madness or crime.
Silence became oppressive.
Then it seemed as if the key was being gently turned in the lock.
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