Half an hour later they got out the travelling chess set, with which they sometimes whiled away a few hours of their journey, and having set up the pieces Roger said quietly: “Which would you prefer, Isabella? Will you be white or red today?”
“Thank you, Rojé, I have no preference; since the white are nearest me I will play them,” she replied in an equally calm voice. But she quickly lowered her eyes and began to blush furiously.
In that formal age only the country people had retained their naturalness, and even they were not given to bandying about endearments lightly. In the upper classes only close relatives and friends of long standing called one another by their Christian names; so the first occasion on which a young man and woman did so was a landmark in their intimacy surpassed only by their first kiss.
For the next hour or so both of them were too preoccupied with the step they had taken to play chess with even the moderate concentration which was all they usually gave the game, and they scarcely noticed the lovely vale of Riom through which they were passing.
They had now spent little short of five days and nights constantly in one another’s company. For well over a hundred hours Isabella had scarcely been out of Roger’s sight, except when he was asleep, when she took off her outer garments night and morning behind a screen, and on such occasions as the ladies and Quetzal got out of the coach to lighten its burden when it came to an unusually steep hill. During that time her every feature and expression had become etched in his mind, and he had come to know her better than he could have done during several weeks of normal acquaintance.
As none of the party except themselves spoke French they had been able to converse with complete freedom on a great variety of subjects; and as she unfolded her mind to him he had more and more come to admire its breath, intelligence and straightforwardness. He had already forgotten his first critical assessment of her as not strictly beautiful, coming instead to find an ethereal loveliness in her long thin face and an inexplicable attraction in her slightly uneven teeth; while he felt that he could have gone on for ever listening to her soft, melodious voice with its fascinating Spanish accent.
But he had never lost sight of the trouble and grief they would be laying up for themselves if they entered on an affaire; and he knew that even to start a light-hearted flirtation would be to step out on a slippery slope which might swiftly send him slithering headlong into passion. So he had watched himself like a hawk, and whenever their conversation had tended to grow sentimental he had gently guided it into other channels.
Now, after that morning’s episode, he blamed himself for the rash impulse which had led him to call her by her name, because she had inadvertently used his in a moment of excitement. Quite apart from any unhappy aftermath that an affaire with her might bring to himself, he was now more than ever convinced that it would be a wicked thing to arouse her passions.
He had loved a number of women, and one desperately, but even that he had got over comparatively quickly, whereas Isabella was not of the type that having loved one man could soon find consolation in the arms of another. Roger was no moralist, but his innate decency made him acutely conscious that, since she could not hide the fact that she was strongly attracted to him, it was for him to protect her from herself. He had, so far, treated her with the courtesy due to a woman but the open friendliness he would have displayed to a man; and he knew that if the powder barrel created by their propinquity was to be kept damped down he must strive more rigorously than ever to preserve that attitude, despite the fact that there could now be no going back on their calling one another by their Christian names.
At midday they passed through a plain as flat as a lake with ranges of jagged mountains bounding it in the distance on either hand. Then, in the early afternoon, they came to the twin towns of Ferrand and Clermont, both perched picturesquely on volcanic hilltops. But the latter, despite its romantic situation, proved on closer acquaintance to be a stinking place of narrow streets and dirty hovels built of lava; so that they were glad to leave it on the following morning for Issoire.
Their way now lay through fascinating country where conic mountains rose in every direction, some of which were crowned with villages and others with old Roman castles; but the steepness of the gradients necessitated the passengers in the coach frequently getting out to walk. The Señora Poeblar always got out with the others, as, in spite of her fat, she was a strongly built old lady, and she seemed to enjoy the exercise; so for several quite long intervals during the day Roger was left on his own.
Six days of complete rest with a plenitude of good food and wine had now built him up again, and he would have liked to stretch his legs from time to time with the rest, but the heavy block of plaster in which his foot was set ruled that out of the question. However, he put these periods of solitude to quite good purpose, as a few days earlier Isabella had dug a Franco-Spanish dictionary out of her baggage and, with its aid, had started to teach him her language. She was giving him an hour’s lesson each evening while their supper was being prepared, then at odd times during the day they ran through the phrases she had taught him! and now, while on his own, he passed the time in increasing his vocabulary by making lists of words from the dictionary.
Owing to the hilly nature of the country they covered only seventeen miles that day, yet were much more tired than usual when they reached the little town of Issoire. It was here they learned that the States General had actually met. The news had come with the passing through of the Marseilles Mail early that morning. It was said that Monsieur Necker had made a long speech that had pleased no one, that the Third Estate was disgruntled because it considered that it had been treated like a poor relation of the other two, but that all the same the meeting had passed off without any disturbances; otherwise there were no details.
The next day found Isabella’s party still wending its way slowly through the strange volcanic mountains of the Auvergne. As the strain on both horses and passengers was considerable they had decided to make another short stage of only eighteen miles to Brioud, and before the morning was far advanced they were all glad that they had not been more ambitious. It was now the 9th of May and with every day’s journey further south it grew hotter, so that after ten o’clock even the Spaniards began to feel the heat, and Roger found the interior of the coach intolerably stuffy.
At the village of Lempdes they crossed a river spanned by a big single arch and a few hundred yards to the far side of it the way began to rise steeply again, so the coach made one of its periodic halts for the passengers to get out and walk. The Señora, Quetzal and Maria stepped down into the road, and Isabella was just about to follow them when she stumbled and almost fell.
Roger put out a hand and caught hers in an effort to save her, but before she could regain her balance she was thrown back against him, and for a moment they were pressed against one another as she lay half-sitting in his lap.
With a little gasp she pushed herself upright, then she laughed to cover her embarrassment and got out of the coach; but before Roger released her hand he could feel that it was trembling violently.
An hour later the coach halted at the bottom of another hill; again the Señora, Quetzal and Maria got out; but this time Isabella made no move to follow them. Instead she said to her duenna: “I have a slight pain, so I shall not walk this time.”
The others commiserated with her, the door of the coach was shut and as it moved on they dropped behind.
She had spoken in Spanish but Roger now knew a few score words of that tongue, and he said:
“Did I gather that you are not feeling well?”
They were still seated side by side. She turned her head and looked full at him. Their faces were only a few inches apart and her eyes were dilated with excitement, as she whispered: “I told them so. But it was a lie. I—I had to be alone with you.”
Instinctively their mouths came together, and next moment they were locked in a wild embrace.
Chapter VIII
Of Love and Death
About ten minutes elapsed before the coach breasted the hill and stopped to pick up its passengers. During that time neither Isabella nor Roger uttered a word. For them the ten minutes seemed barely two as they clung together in the first surge of passion. It was not until she actually kissed him that he realised how great a strain he had put upon himself these past few days in resisting the temptation to kiss her; while again and again her mouth sought his with the avidity of one seeking to slake a thirst after having been lost in a desert.
As the coach halted they started apart and swiftly sat back in their normal positions. The seat was deep and, in spite of the bright sunlight outside, the interior of the vehicle was semi-dark, so when the Señora climbed in she did not notice their flushed faces; and as it moved on she took Isabella’s unaccustomed silence to be caused by the pain of which she had spoken.
The gradients were easier now and as the Señora had already walked some three miles that morning she was feeling tired, so none of them got out again until they reached Brioude.
The next day was a Sunday and normally Isabella’s party would not have travelled on it, but she agreed with Roger that they should do so in order to minimise the delay in the delivery of the Queen’s letter. Nevertheless, instead of starting at eight-thirty, as was their custom, they postponed their departure till eleven, in order that they might first attend Mass. Having got herself ready for church, Isabella suddenly declared that her pain had come on again and excused herself from going; so the Señora Poeblar went off with the rest, apparently quite unconcerned at leaving her with the still incapacitated Roger.
Normally, wherever he was, Roger followed the upper-class English practice of bathing two or three times a week, but on the Continent the custom was still regarded as eccentric and even dangerous. Instead, wealthy people of both sexes sprayed themselves lavishly with scent, bathing only with considerable ceremony three or four times a year, or when a doctor recommended a course of herb baths as a remedy for some illness.
During a journey people removed only their outer clothes at night and Roger had been assisted in this by the footman, Pedro. That morning he had been dressed and shaved himself while the others were getting ready for church, but as he had to keep his foot up he was still lying propped up on his bedroll.
While the Señora and the others were going downstairs Isabella sat looking at Roger, the blood draining from her face until it was as white as a sheet, her black eyebrows and full, crimson mouth standing out by contrast with startling vividness. As she heard them crossing the cobbled yard below the window she jumped to her feet and ran across to him. He opened his arms and with a little sob she fell into them.
After a few breathless kisses she drew back and cried: “Say you love me! Say you love me! Please, Rojé. I implore you to!”
“Indeed I do, my beautiful Isabella,” he replied, kissing her afresh. And he meant it, for after the preceding day’s scene in the coach he had known that further resistance was useless, and the violence of her passion had now communicated itself to him.
“You swear it?” she demanded.
“I swear it! Surely you must have seen that for days I have been fighting against the impulse to make love to you? Your sweetness has utterly overcome me; but I feared that to show my feelings openly could only bring you grief.”
“Oh thank God! thank God!” she exclaimed, ignoring his last few words. “Never have I felt so shamed as after yesterday. What must you have thought of me? Yet I vow that far from being accustomed to behaving so I have always despised women who made advances to men.”
“I know your mind too well ever to have thought otherwise,” he assured her quickly. “How could anyone be constantly in your company for a week without realising that your standards of conduct are as high as your person is beautiful?”
“But Rojé, I have never felt for any man as I do for you,” she hurried on. “The very touch of your hand makes me deliriously happy, yet terrifies me. How I shall bring myself to support Don Diego after this I cannot think.”
“Don Diego?” he repeated.
“Yes. I have said nothing of it because each time I have broached the question of love or marriage you have turned the conversation to some other topic. But I am going to Naples to be married.”
“Do you—do you regard your fiancé with affection?”
“How could I? I do not even know him. He is my father’s choice for me. I am twenty-two and should have been married long ere this, but Madame Marie Antoinette begged my father to let me remain with her until this spring; then he insisted that I must return to take my rightful place in Spanish society.”
“This Don Diego, I suppose, is a gentleman of ancient lineage?” Roger asked a little bitterly.
She nodded. “He is El Gonde Diego Sidonia y Ulloa. He has great estates in Castile and on his uncle’s death he will inherit a dukedom. His father was one of the nobles who assisted Don Carlos to conquer Naples, so he also has estates there and in Sicily. He has lived in Naples most of his life and is one of King Ferdinand’s Chamberlains. Even my father considers that a better match could hardly be found for me.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“He is just under thirty years of age, and said to be handsome.”
“Mayhap you will fall in love with him, then.” The second Roger had spoken he could have bitten off his tongue. The remark was not made cynically but it might easily be taken so, and in any case it suggested a lightness that was out of keeping with the moment. To his mingled relief and distress she took it literally, and confessed:
“I had hoped to. If I could have done that I might have brought him some happiness, or at least derived some pleasure from being his Condesa. But how can I ever do so now?”
He took her hands and pressed them. “Oh, Isabella, my poor precious, I would not have brought this willingly upon you for the world.”
“ ’Tis not your fault, Rojé. Neither is it mine. And I would not have had things otherwise if I could.”
“I tremble with delight to hear you say it. Yet I know myself to be terribly unworthy of such love as yours.”
“Why should you think that?” she asked seriously.
“Because I have loved much and—and been far from faithful,” he replied with an effort.
She smiled. “Men are rarely faithful! That at least I know about them, so I count it no crime in you. But in all other ways you are different from any man I have ever met. Perhaps that is partly because you are English. If so the women of England are monstrous fortunate. My own countrymen are deserving of admiration, for they are upright, kind and chivalrous; but they consider it beneath their dignity to talk to any female as an equal. Frenchmen are clever and amusing but they are rarely sincere and where a woman is concerned think only in terms of her seduction. But you combine gallantry with gentleness; you show no trace of condescension in discussing with me matters upon which a woman’s opinion is supposed to be worthless, and treat me with the gay camaraderie that you would use towards another man. ’Tis that in you, more even that your handsome looks, that I have come to love.”
All too late Roger saw where he had erred. If he had displayed only an amused tolerance towards her intellectual leanings, or, better still, attempted to take liberties with her at the first opportunity, he would have repelled her and, most probably, nipped her embryo passion for him in the bud; but in the very method by which he had sought to do so he had defeated his own end.
Yet, now that his scruples had been willy-nilly overcome, he was much too human to allow his earlier misgivings to mar his delight in the love that she was pouring out so freely. Once more he took her in his arms, and for a while they mingled blissful sighs and kisses.
It was not until the time for the return of the church party drew near that he made one final effort to save them both from the slippery path they were treading. Putting her gently from him he said:
“Listen, Isabella, my love. I am but a gentleman o
f small fortune, and we both know that your father would not even consider a request from me for your hand.”
“Alas,” she sighed. “In that I fear you right beyond all question.”
“Then had we not best use the chirurgeon’s knife upon our passion before it begets a lasting obsession? That we have seen not a sign of de Roubec these past eight days can be taken as a fair indication that he has abandoned his designs upon the Queen’s letter; and I am now sufficiently recovered to travel on my own. If you tell the Señora Poeblar that I am carrying a Government despatch, that will be reason enough to excuse my leaving you here and hastening on to Marseilles. For both our sakes I urge you to let me take post-chaise this afternoon.”
“Nay, Rojé! Nay!” she cried, flinging herself upon him again. “I beg you to do no such thing. We have but another week, or ten days at the most. My dear Señora is no fool and although she has said nothing of it I feel certain that she guesses already what is in the wind. Yet she is too fond of me to prove difficult, provided we are circumspect. Between here and Marseilles we can snatch many stolen moments alone together. For me they will be memories beyond price to treasure in the years to come. I implore you not to rob me of them.”
To that sweet appeal there could be but one answer, and Roger made it with a fervour equal to her own. “So be it then, my love. When the time comes, part we must. But until then we will give no thought to the future.”
At eleven o’clock the party set off as planned, to sleep that night at the little town of Fix. The country continued to be picturesque and hilly, so on half a dozen occasions the Señora, Quetzal and Maria got out to walk; but Isabella used her feigned indisposition as an excuse to remain with Roger. Whenever they were alone they seized the opportunity to nestle in an embrace in the warm semi-darkness of the coach, and even when the others were with them in it they now secretly held hands.
The Rising Storm Page 16