Читать книгу In Mary's Reign - Baroness Orczy - Страница 8

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Breathless, half laughing and half crying, very merry, yet wholly frightened, those same two hooded and masked figures had paused almost immediately beneath the platform of Mirrab’s tent.

They had been running very fast, and, exhausted, were now clinging to one another, cowering in the deepest shadow of the rough wooden construction.

“Oh! Margaret sweet,” whispered a feminine voice from behind the silken mask, “I vow I should have died with fright!”

“Think you we have escaped them?” murmured the other feebly.

She who had first spoken, taller than her friend and obviously the leader of this mad escapade, tiptoed cautiously forward and peered out into the open space.

“Sh—sh—sh!” she whispered, as she dragged her unwilling companion after her, “do you see them? . . . right over there . . . they are running fast . . . Oh! ho! ho! ho!” she laughed suddenly with childish glee as she clapped her hands together; “but, Margaret dear! . . . did we not fool them merrily? . . . Oh! I could shriek for joy! Aye, run, run, run, my fine gallants!” she added, blowing an imaginary kiss to her distant pursuers, “an you go that way you’ll ne’er o’ertake us, e’en though you raced the wind . . . ha! ha! ha! . . .”

Her laugh sounded a little forced and hysterical, for she had had a terrible fright, and her companion was still clinging miserably, helplessly to her side.

“Nay, Ursula, how can you be so merry?” admonished Margaret in a voice almost choked with tears; “think if the Duchess of Lincoln were to hear of this adventure—or Her Majesty herself—oh! . . .”

But Ursula’s gay, madcap mood was proof against Margaret’s tears.

“Oh! oh! oh!” she ejaculated, mimicking her friend’s tones of horror. “Oh!” she added with mock seriousness, “well, then, of course, there would be trouble, Margaret mine! . . . sweet Margaret! . . . such a lecture! . . . and oh! oh! oh! such black looks from Her Majesty! . . . we should e’en—think on it!—have to look demure for at least two days, until our sins be forgiven us! . . .”

She paused awhile, mischief apparent even beneath the half-transparent lace which hid her laughter-loving mouth. She drew her trembling companion closer to her, and, still laughing, she coaxed her gently.

“There, there, sweet,” she murmured, “cheer up, I pray thee, cheer up. . . . See, we have come to the end of our journey. We have baffled those persistent gallants, and this is the witch’s tent. Margaret!” she added with an impatient tap of the foot, “art a goose to go on crying so? I vow I’d have come alone had I known thou’rt such a coward.”

“Ursula!” said Margaret, somewhat emboldened by her friend’s assurance, “could you guess who were those two gallants?”

“Nay,” replied Ursula indifferently, “one of them, methinks, was the Marquis de Suarez, for I caught sight of his black silk hose, but what do we care about these nincompoops, Margaret? Come and see the witch—we have no time to lose.”

Eagerly she turned towards the booth, and somewhat awed, anxious, yet not wholly daring, she gazed up in astonishment at the gaudy draperies, the tall flagstaff, the weird black flag with its strange device. Then with sudden resolution she planted her foot upon the bottom step.

“Wilt follow me, sweet?” she asked.

Even as she spoke Abra, in tall peaked cap and flowing mantle, emerged from within the tent.

Margaret, who was screwing up her courage to follow her friend, gave a shriek of dismay.

“No! no! no! Ursula!” she said, clinging to the other girl, not daring to look up at the awesome figure of the lean magician. “I implore you, give up the thought.”

“Give up the thought?” rejoined Ursula, boldly trying to smother her own superstitious fears, “when I’ve gone thus far?”

“I cannot think what you want with that horrid witch!” pleaded Margaret.

At sight of Abra’s long white beard, his wizard’s wand, and cloak covered with cabalistic signs, even Ursula’s courage had begun to ebb. She had hastily retreated from the steps and followed Margaret once more within the protecting shelter of the shadows.

“I want to know my fortune, Margaret mine,” she said in a voice which was not quite as firm as before, “and I hear that this witch can see into the future. ’Tis said that she has marvellous powers.”

“Why should you want to know the future?” persisted timid, practical Margaret; “is not the present good enough for you?”

“His Grace of Wessex comes back to Court to-day,” rejoined Ursula, “after an absence of many months.”

“Well?—what of him?”

“What of him? . . . Margaret, art stupid, or art not my friend? . . . Is it not natural that I should wish to know whether I am to be Duchess of Wessex or abbess in a holy but uncomfortable convent?”

“Yes, ’tis natural enough,” assented Margaret thoughtfully, “but—”

“His Grace has never seen me since I was so long,” said Ursula with a short, impatient sigh, and stretching out a round arm decked with a sleeve of rich silk and fine lace. “I had a red face then, and pap was stuffed into my mouth to keep me quiet. You see, I could not have been madly alluring then.”

“And you are beautiful now, Ursula. But of what avail is it? You cannot wed His Grace of Wessex, for he’ll never ask you to be his wife. He’ll marry the Queen. All England wishes it.”

“But I wish him to marry me,” quoth Ursula with a resolute tap of her high-heeled shoe against the ground. “Yes, me! and I want that witch yonder to ask the stars if he will fall in love with me when he sees me, or if he will yield to those who want to make of him a tool for their political ambition, and marry an ugly, ill-tempered old woman who happens to be Queen of England.”

“Ursula!”

Margaret’s horror, amazement, and awe had rendered her almost speechless. Ursula’s utterance was nearly sacrilegious, in these days when kings and queens ruled by right divine.

But the young girl continued, quite unabashed by her friend’s rebuke.

“Well,” she said imperturbably, “you can’t deny that the Queen is old! . . . and ugly! . . . and ill-tempered! . . .”

Margaret, however, was prepared to deny these monstrous statements with the last breath left in her delicate body. The poor little soul was frightened out of her wits.

Suppose some one had overheard!—and repeated the tale that two of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting had called Her Majesty old!—and ugly!—and ill-tempered!—

Nay, Ursula’s madcap freaks were past bearing! and would lead her into serious trouble one of these days.

“Margaret,” whispered the delinquent, who still seemed quite unaware of the enormity of her offence, “hast thou ever seen His Grace of Wessex?”

“No,” replied Margaret curtly, for she was still very wrathful, and vaguely felt that, at this stage, all references to the Duke were somehow treasonable.

“Nor I since I was a baby,” sighed Ursula; “but see here. . . .”

From beneath the folds of her cloak she drew a chain and locket, and holding the latter before Margaret’s unwilling eyes, she said ecstatically—

“That’s his picture. Isn’t he handsome?”

“You’ve fallen in love with his picture!”

“Madly!”

“Madly indeed!” retorted Margaret.

Ursula once more hid the locket inside her robe. She had regained all her courage. Once more dragging her weaker companion by the wrist she turned towards the witch’s booth.

Abra, the magician, tired out by his day’s exertions, had settled himself down on a tattered piece of rug outside the tent; there he had fallen peacefully asleep, his venerable head thrown back, his lean shanks hanging over the edge of the platform and snoring the snore of the just. Thus he had failed to spy the two hooded, dainty figures, who had all along kept within the shadows.

Suddenly through his pleasant slumbers he heard an eagerly whispered—

“Hey! friend!”

Whilst the toe of his shoe was violently tagged at from below.

“Friend, wake!”

“They won’t listen!” added an impatient, half-tearful voice.

But already Abra was on his feet. Giving his humble henchman a violent kick to wake him up, he began to mutter mechanically, even before he was fully conscious—

“What ho, my masters! consult the world-famous necromancer—”

Bang! bang! bang! on the big drum came automatically from his henchman, who was only half awake.

“No! no! no!” entreated Ursula, “I prithee not so much noise! We wish to consult the soothsayer . . . we’ve brought some money . . . three gold pieces . . . is that enough? . . . But in the name of Our Lady I beg of thee not to make so much noise.”

Timidly she held up a silken purse towards the astonished wizard. Three gold pieces!—why, ’twas a fortune, the like of which the worthy Abra had never beheld in one sum in his life.

To ask him not to make a noise was to demand the impossible. With one hand he pushed his henchman vigorously to one side. The latter dropped his cymbals, which rattled off the platform with an ear-splitting crash.

All the while Abra in stentorian tones, and holding back the folds of the tent, was shouting at the top of his voice—

“This way, ladies! for the great soothsayer Mirrab, the sale of love-philters and charms, and of the true elixir of life.”

“The die is cast, Margaret mine,” said Ursula, trying vainly to steady her voice, which was trembling, and her knees which were shaking beneath her. “Art coming?—Oh! I—I—feel a little nervous,” she admitted in spite of herself, “and you—oh! how your hand trembles. . . .”

She was frankly terrified now. The noise was so awful, and though she did not dare look to the right or left of her she was conscious that she and her friend were no longer alone on the open place. She could hear the murmur of voices, the sound of idle folk gathering in every direction.

Her instinct suggested immediate flight, and the abandonment of this mad adventure while there was yet time, but her pride urged her to proceed. She gripped Margaret’s wrist with a resolute hand and made a quick rush for the steps.

Alas! she was just two seconds too late. The next instant she felt her waist seized firmly from behind, whilst a merry voice shouted—

“Cornered at last!”

Wrenching herself free with a sudden twist of her firm young shoulders, Ursula contrived to liberate herself momentarily. She was dimly conscious of having caught sight of Margaret in the like plight as herself.

“Not so fast, fair one,” whispered an insinuating voice close to her, “a word in thy pretty ear.”

Oh! the shame of this vulgar adventure! Pursued like some kitchen wench out on a spree, by a gallant, eager for an idle kiss.

She felt her cheeks tingle underneath her mask; saw and guessed the short laugh, the shrug of the shoulders of the idlers round, far too accustomed to these spectacles to take more than passing note of it.

Once more the firm grip had seized her waist. This time she felt herself powerless to struggle.

“Nay, in the name of heaven, sir,” she entreated tearfully, “I pray you let me go.”

“Not until I have caught a nearer sight of those bright eyes, that shine at me through that cruel mask.”

The soft guttural tones revealed the identity of the speaker to Ursula. She knew Don Miguel well; knew his wild, impudent spirit, his love of idle flirtations which had already made him the terror of the prim Queen’s Court. She knew that she would not be allowed to escape before this ridiculous episode had been brought to its usual conclusion.

Oh! how she longed for the Duchess of Lincoln’s severe guardianship at this moment! How bitterly she repented the folly which had prompted her to drag Margaret along into this wild adventure.

Poor Margaret! she, too, was doing her best to evade the unwelcome attentions of her gallant! and that magician! and those louts! all grinning like so many apes at the spectacle.

It was maddening!

And she was helpless!

The next moment the young Spaniard’s indiscreet hands had snatched the protecting mask from her face, and the daintiest and most perfect picture Nature had ever fashioned stood revealed, blushing with shame and vexation, before his delighted, slightly sarcastic gaze.

“Ah! luck favours me indeed!” he murmured with avowed admiration, “the newly-risen star—nay! the brightest sun in the firmament of beauty! the Lady Ursula Glynde!”