The Rupa Book of Love Stories & Favourite Fairy Tales (2 in 1)

by Ruskin Bond

  "The door, the door, open the door!"

  The Bishop, his right hand being across his body and resting on the hilt of his sword, laid his left upon the handle of the door, and turned it. Then he flung the door open wide; at that instant Osra sprang past him, her eyes gleaming like flames from her dead white face. And she stood rigid on the threshold of the room, with the Bishop by her side.

  In the middle of the room stood the Prince of Glottenburg; strained in a close embrace, clinging to him, supported by his arms, with head buried in his breast, was a girl of slight and slender figure, graceful though not tall; her body was still shaken by continual struggling sobs. The Prince held her there as though against the world, but raised his head and looked at the intruders with a grave sad air. There was no shame on his face, and hardly surprise. Presently he took one arm from about the lady, and, raising it, motioned to them to be still. Osra took one step forward towards where the pair stood; the Bishop caught her sleeve, but she shook him off. The lady looked up into the Prince's face; with a sudden startled cry she clutched him closer, and turned a terrified face over her shoulder. Then she moaned in great fear, and, reeling, fell against the Prince; she would have sunk to the ground if he had not upheld her, and her eyes closed and her lip dropped, as she swooned away. The Princess smiled, and, drawing herself to her full height, stood watching while Ludwig bore the lady to a couch and laid her there. Then, when he came back and faced her, she asked coldly and slowly:

  "Who is this woman, sir? Or is she one of those who have no names?"

  The Prince sprang forward, a sudden anger in his eyes; he raised his hand as if he would have pressed it across her scornful mouth and kept back her bitter words. But she did not flinch; pointing at him with her finger, she cried to the Bishop in a ringing voice:

  "Kill him, my lord, kill him."

  And the sword of the Bishop of Modenstein was halfway out of the scabbard.

  "I would to God, my lord," said the Prince in low sad tones, "that God would suffer you to kill me and me to take death at your hands. But neither for you nor for me is the blow lawful. Let me speak to the Princess."

  The Bishop still grasped his sword; for Osra's face and hand still commanded him. But at the instant of his hesitation, while the temptation was hot on him, there came from the couch where the lady lay a low moan of great pain. She flung her arms out and turned, groaning again, on her back, and her head lay hanging over the side of the couch. The Bishop's eyes met Ludwig's, and with a "God forgive me!" he let the sword slip back, and, springing across the room, fell on his knees beside the couch. He broke the gold chain round his neck and grasped the crucifix which it carried in one hand, while with the other he raised the lady's head, praying her to open her eyes, before whose closed lids he held the sacred image; and he, who had come so near to great sin, now prayed softly but fervently for her life and God's pity on her; for the frailty her slight form showed could not withstand the shock of this trial.

  "Who is she?" asked the Princess.

  But Ludwig's eyes had wandered back to the couch, and he answered only:

  "My God, it will kill her."

  "I care not," said Osra. But then came another low moan. "I care not," said the Princess again. "Ah, she is in great suffering." And her eyes followed the Prince's.

  There was silence, save for the lady's low moans and the whispered prayers of the Bishop of Modenstein. But the lady opened her eyes, and in an instant, answering the summons, the Prince was by her side, kneeling and holding her hand very tenderly; and he met a glance from the Bishop across her prostrate body. The Prince bowed his head and one sob burst from him.

  "Leave me alone with her for a little, sir," said the Bishop, and the Prince, obeying, rose and withdrew into the bay of the window, while Osra stood alone near the door by which she had entered.

  A few minutes passed, then Osra saw the Prince return to where the lady was and kneel again beside her; and she saw that the Bishop was preparing to perform his most sacred and sublime office; the lady's eyes dwelt on him now in peace and restfulness, and she held Prince Ludwig's hand in her small hand. But Osra would not kneel; she stood upright, still and cold, as though she neither saw nor heard anything of what passed; she would not pity nor forgive the woman, even if, as they seemed to think, she lay dying. But she spoke once, asking in a harsh voice:

  "Is there no physician in the house or near?"

  "None, madame," said the Prince.

  The Bishop began the office, and Osra stood, dimly hearing the words of comfort, peace and hope, dimly seeing the smile on the lady's face; for gradually her eyes clouded with tears. Now her ears seemed to hear nothing save the sad and piteous sobs that had shaken the girl as she hung about Ludwig's neck. But she strove to drive away her softer thoughts, fanning her fury when it burnt low, and telling herself again of the insult that she had suffered. Thus she rested till the Bishop had performed the office. But when he had finished it, he rose from his knees and came to where Osra was.

  "It was your duty," she said, "but it is none of mine."

  "She will not live an hour," said he. "For she had an affection of the heart, and this shock has killed her. Indeed I think she was half-dead for grief before we came."

  "Who is she?" broke again from Osra's lips.

  "Come and hear," said he, and she followed him obediently, yet unwillingly, to the couch, and looked down at the lady. The lady looked at her with wondering eyes, and then she smiled faintly, pressing the Prince's hand, and whispering:

  "Yet she is so beautiful." And she seemed now wonderfully happy, so that they all three watched her and were envious, although they were to live and she to die.

  "Now God pardon her sin!" said the Princess Osra suddenly, and she fell on her knees beside the couch, crying: "Surely God has pardoned her!"

  "Sin she had none, save what clings even to the purest in this world," said the Bishop. "For what she has said to me I know to be true."

  Osra answered nothing, but gazed in questioning at the Prince, and he, still holding the lady's hand, began to speak in a gentle voice:

  "Do not ask her name, madame. But from the first hour that we knew the meaning of love we have loved one another. And had the issue rested in my hands, I would have thrown to the winds all that kept me from her. I remember when first I met her—ah, my sweet, do you remember? From that day to this in soul she had been mine, and I hers in all my life. But more could not be. Madame, you have asked what love is. Here is love. Yet fate is stronger. Thus I came to Strelsau to woo, and she, left alone, resolved to give herself to God."

  "How comes she here, then?" whispered Osra, and she laid one hand timidly on the couch, near to the lady yet not so as to touch even her garments.

  "She came here—" he began; but suddenly, to their amazement, the lady, who had seemed dead, with an effort raised herself on her elbow, and spoke in a quick eager whisper, as if she feared time and strength would fail.

  "He is a great Prince," she said, "he must be a great King; God means him for greatness, God forbid that I should be his ruin. Ah, what a sweet dream he painted! But praise be to the Blessed Saints who kept me strong. Yet at the last I was weak. I could not live without another sight of his face; and so—I came. Next week I am—I was to take the veil; and I came here to see him once again. God pardon me for it. but I could not help it. Ah, madame, I know you, and I see now your beauty. Have you known love?"

  "No," said Osra; and she moved her hand near to the lady's hand.

  "When he found me here, he prayed me again to do what he asked; and I was half-killed in denying it. But I prevailed, and we were even then parting when you came. Why, why did I come?" For a moment her voice died away in a low soft moan. But she made one more effort, clasping Osra's hand in her delicate fingers, she whispered: "I am going. Be his wife."

  "No, no, no," whispered Osra, her face now close to the lady's. "You must live; you must live and be happy."

  And then she kissed the lady's lips. The
lady put out her arms and clasped them round Osra's neck, and again she whispered softly in Osra's ear. Neither Ludwig nor the Bishop heard what she said, but they heard only that Osra sobbed. Presently the lady's arms relaxed a little in their hold, and Osra, having kissed her again, rose and signed to Ludwig to come nearer; while she, turning, gave her hand to the Bishop, and he led her from the room, and, finding another room near, took her in there, where she sat, silent and pale.

  Thus half an hour passed; then the Bishop stole out softly, and presently returned, saying:

  "God has spared her the long painful path, and has taken her straight to His rest."

  Osra heard him, half in a trance and as if she did not hear; she did not know where he went nor what he did, nor anything that passed, until, as it seemed after a long while, she looked up and saw Prince Ludwig standing before her. He was composed and calm; but it seemed as if half the life had gone out of his face. Osra rose slowly to her feet, supporting herself on an arm of the chair on which she had sat; and, when she had seen his face, she suddenly threw herself on the floor at his feet, crying:

  "Forgive me, forgive me!"

  "The guilt is mine," said he. "I did not trust you and did by stealth what your nobility would have allowed me to do openly. The guilt is mine." And he offered to raise her. But she rose, unaided, asking with choking voice:

  "Is she dead?"

  "She is dead," said the Prince, and Osra, hearing it, covered her face with her hands and blindly groped her way back to the chair, where she sat, panting and exhausted.

  "To her I have said farewell, and now, madame, to you. Yet do not think that I am a man without eyes for your beauty, or a heart to know your worth. I seemed to you a fool and a churl. I grieved most bitterly, and I wronged you bitterly. My excuse for all is now known. For though you are more beautiful than she, yet true love is no wanderer; it gives a beauty that it does not find, and forges a chain no charms can break. Madame, farewell."

  She looked at him and saw the sad joy in his eyes, an exultation over what had been, that what was could not destroy; and she knew that the vision was still with him though his love was dead. Suddenly he seemed to her a man she also might love and for whom she also, if need be, might gladly die; yet not because she loved him, for she was asking still in wonder: "What is this love?"

  "Madame, farewell," said he again, and, kneeling before her, he kissed her hand.

  "I carry the body of my love," he went on, "back with me to my home, there to mourn for her; and I shall come no more to Strelsau."

  Osra bent her eyes on his face as he knelt, and presently she said to him in a whisper that was low for awe, not shame:

  "You heard what she bade me do?"

  "Yes, madame. I know her wish."

  "And you would do it?" she asked.

  "Madame, my struggle was fought before she died. But now you know that my love was not yours."

  "That also I knew before, sir," and a slight bitter smile came on her face. But she grew grave again and sat there, seeming to be pondering, while Prince Ludwig waited. Then she suddenly leant forward and said:

  "If I loved I would wait for you to love. Now what is this love that I cannot feel?"

  And then she sat again silent, but at last raised her eyes again to his, saying in a voice that even in the stillness of the room he hardly heard:

  "Now I nearly love you, for I have seen your love and know that you can love; and I think that love must breed love, so that she who loves must in God's time be beloved. Yet I——" She paused here, and for a moment hid her face with her hand. "Yet I cannot," she went on. "Is it our Lord Christ who bids us take the lower place? I cannot take it. He does not so reign in my heart. For to my proud heart—ah, my heart so proud!—she would be ever between us. I could not bear it. Yet I believe now that with you I might one day find happiness."

  The Prince, though in that hour he could not think of love, was yet very much moved by her new tenderness and felt that what had passed rather drew them together than made any separation between them. And it seemed to him that the dead lady's blessing was on his suit; so he said:

  "Madame, I would most faithfully serve you and you would be nearest and dearest to me of all living women."

  She waited awhile, then she sighed heavily, looking in his face with an air of wistful longing; and she knit her brows as though she were puzzled. But at last, shaking her head, she said:

  "It is not enough."

  With this she rose and took him by the hand, and they two went back together to where the Bishop of Modenstein still prayed beside the body of the lady.

  Osra stood on one side of the body and stretched her hand out to the Prince who stood on the other side.

  "See," said she, "she must be between us." And having kissed the dead face once, she left the Prince there by the side of his love and herself went out; and, turning her head, she saw that the Prince knelt again by the corpse of his love.

  "He does not think of me," she said to the Bishop.

  "His thoughts are still with her, madame," he answered.

  It was late night now, and they rode swiftly and silently along the road to Strelsau. On all the way they spoke to one another only a few words, both being sunk deep in thought. But once Osra spoke, as they were already near to Strelsau. For she turned suddenly to the Bishop, saying:

  "My lord, what is it? Do you know it?"

  "Yes, madame, I have known it," answered the Bishop.

  "Yet you are a Churchman!"

  "True, madame," said he, and he smiled sadly.

  She seemed to consider, fixing her eyes on his; but he turned his aside.

  "Could you not make me understand?" she asked.

  "Your lover, when he comes, will do that, madame," said he, and still he kept his eyes averted. Osra wondered why he kept his eyes turned away; yet presently a faint smile curved her lips.

  "It may be you might feel it, if you were not a Churchman. But I do not. Many men have said they loved me, and I have felt something in my heart; but not this."

  "It will come," said the Bishop.

  "Does it come then to everyone?"

  "To most," he answered.

  "Heigho, will it ever come to me?" she sighed.

  With this they were at home. And Osra was for a long time very sorrowful for the fate of the lady whom the Prince of Glottenburg had loved; yet, since she saw Ludwig no more, and the joy of youth conquers sadness, she ceased to mourn; but as she walked alone she would wonder more and more what it might be, this great love that she did not feel.

  "For none will tell me, not even the Bishop of Modenstein," said she.

  Mary Ansell

  BY MARTIN ARMSTRONG

  She cherished the memory of a brief, idyllic affair with a young soldier. A story of undying love…

  Mary Brakefield, wife of Samuel Brakefield, landlord of the Golden Lion, Netherhinton, made her way along the accustomed hedge-bordered road that led to the foot of the downs. From the road end the coarse grass of the downs rose in a single abrupt slope to the flat summit, which was enclosed by a great rampart rising nobly from its broad ditch.

  The face of this ancient earthwork was so steep that he who climbed it could do so only on his knees, pulling himself up with his hands by the strong tufted grass that clothed it like a shaggy fur. Every Thursday Mary Brakefield took the same walk, and always alone. She was a quiet, kindly, respectable woman, not otherwise eccentric, and her husband and the neighbours, though they themselves never took a walk except when some definite object required, had long since grown so accustomed to this weekly stroll of hers that they had ceased to regard it as strange, even when the weather was so stormy that it was incredible that anyone should walk out, much less climb the bare downs, for mere pleasure.

  On winter evenings, when, looking from their cottage windows into a stormy twilight, the villagers saw a lonely figure struggling against the wind and rain down the long village street, they would say without surprise: "It'll only be M
rs. Brakefield coming back from her walk."

  She was a spare, neat woman of forty, though strangers put her age down at over fifty. Her face was pale and bony; the eyes, too, were pale and weary and red-rimmed; and the corners of her mouth had a bitter downward droop that on rare occasions vanished suddenly and surprisingly into a charming, wistful smile.

  It was the beginning of October, and the hedges between which she walked had kindled from the dusty green of summer into long lines of scarlet and yellow flame that danced and flickered against the sagging grey sky in the breeze that flowed through them. All her life she had known that road, and the downs that rose at the end of it, and, beyond them, the wide plains of the sea into which the downs dropped—a sheer fall of eight hundred feet—in scooped precipices of white or rosy chalk.

  For she was a native of Netherhinton and had never been further east of it than Bournemouth, further west than Sidmouth, or further north than Dorchester. She came of poor parents. Her father had been a farm labourer and her mother the daughter of a labourer, and it had been thought a great piece of luck for her to marry the landlord of the Golden Lion.

  She walked on at a brisk pace, looking neither to right nor left nor even ahead of her: she walked, indeed, not at all as if walking for the mere sake of it, but as one on an errand, and when she reached the end of the road she began at once, without a pause or a glance about her, to climb the down by a sheep track that wavered steeply up it.

  Under the stress of the climb her pace became gradually slower and slower; halfway up she paused, breathless, and turned to survey with unseeing eyes the variegated fields below her and, beyond them, the village thatches crouching under the yellowing elms and the gaunt grey fragment of Evesdon Castle, which Cromwell had blown up.

  As soon as she had breath enough, she continued her climb, and then, when she was almost at the top and had reached the earthwork, vanished along the long line of the ditch and in half a minute reappeared, clambering on her hands and knees up the steep rampart. Soon she had crawled to the top, and stood for a moment silhouetted against the sky, a minute vertical object breaking the long horizontal lines of down and earthworks. Then again she disappeared.