Читать книгу William, by the Grace of God - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 7

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They met again, the Prince and Charlotte de Bourbon; he, who was used to only a few hours' sleep, was up almost with the early spring dawn; the day was sunny and misty after yesterday's rain; she and Rénée were walking in the garden when the Prince found them.

At sight of him the waiting-woman withdrew herself, as she had withdrawn herself all her life, but her step was heavy and her shoulders drooped as she went.

The Princess greeted him with her simple serenity, trained to be composed and distant in graciousness.

"I wished to see you again, Mademoiselle," said William.

They fell into step side by side, walking slowly between the flower beds where the snowdrops showed beneath the bushes.

"You leave soon?" asked Charlotte.

"In a few hours."

"Your Highness is not long in any one place," she smiled. "No—an exile's life!"

"We are both exiles," said Charlotte, "and for the same cause."

"Tell me," he asked, "how you came to this great resolution, Mademoiselle, to leave all?"

It did indeed seem strange to him that she, a mere girl, should have dared to break her bonds, her vows, and return to the world from which she had been forever excluded and embrace the faith that was one with damnation to her people and her kin.

He was puzzled also because he did not see in her any great energy or force of character, she seemed rather simple and conformed.

Yet she had done this thing, uninfluenced and unaided.

"I never wished to be a nun," she answered. "When I took my vows I made a protest before the Novices. I was then eleven years old. I loathed the life—from the first."

"And you heard of what was taking place in the world?"

"A little. Something of this great new freedom that was coming—something of the great conflict in France—of what the Queen of Navarre and the Elector were doing, and my sister's lord, Monsieur de Bouillon. I thought it was the moment to free myself."

"And you left everything?"

She looked up at him as if she did not understand his meaning.

"I mean you lost your inheritance, your country and your home? Is this not so, Mademoiselle?" insisted William.

"Has not your Highness lost as much, and more?" she replied.

"Oh, I!" he smiled.

She continued looking at him, knitting her brows in the earnestness of her speech.

"And your life must have been pleasant, was it not?"

"Yes, I think it was, Mademoiselle."

"While mine was hateful to me—so mine was a very little sacrifice beside yours," said the Princess.

"And you," smiled William, "are a very little person beside me—and half my years."

"But Monsieur, you think me very foolish?"

"I wonder at you. I know what it was to break from all custom, old tradition—to renounce all that one had hitherto held sacred."

"But I," said Charlotte, "had never felt these things sacred."

"No?"

"No," repeated the Princess. "I thought we all have the right to our own lives always—and freedom—I never believed in priests and I always thought one faith as good as another and the Reformed Faith a deal more convenient. And I never could believe the plaster statues were the Mothers of God, or the little wax Christmas babies Our Lord."

In these words, spoken with great earnestness, he saw now her strength, the calm force of her steadfast character, her common-sense view, undazzled by tradition; the simplicity of her character pleased his mind, itself so tortured by a thousand intricacies of thought, and the boldness of her outlook a little amazed him, accustomed as he was to numberless sophistries and hesitations, both in his own innermost beliefs and those of the men whom he dealt with.

"And you have never repented your step, Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"Oh, no. I am happy here."

Yet he saw that she was no enthusiast for the cause to which she had given such singular evidence of devotion.

"The religion was the excuse to leave the nun's life?"

"Yes," said Charlotte slowly, "had I not been forced to be a nun I might have been content with the old faith. My whole sympathy, though, is with the Protestants and I shall ever be a true professor of their faith."

He believed her; there was great loyalty, he saw, in her character, she would be very sincere in all her dealings.

They came to a little stone seat beneath an ash tree just covered with the first black buds and seated themselves. William found it pleasant to look at her, and as he looked a sense of her sweetness touched him very deeply; he imagined her as the centre of a home, as the mother of children, and the thought came to him—"If I had had such a woman these last years, how different my life would have been."

He spoke, prompted by these thoughts.

"Now you are in the world, Mademoiselle, you will do as the world does?"

She did not affect to misunderstand him.

"I wish to marry, Monsieur, when the time comes that one I can admire wishes for me, and to help in making life easy for one of your fighting men. But I am dowerless," she added with a smile.

"He who weds you will not look for a dowry," said William. "You have heard of my brother, Count Louis, and his admiration of you?"

"I have seen him," she answered. "He is not my suitor, Highness."

"Not openly as yet, he is afraid, because he has so little to offer."

She shook her head sadly.

"Too much for me to accept."

"Nay, in worldly gear nothing," said William, "but in himself he is a knight for any maiden's dreams, Mademoiselle."

"I do believe it," she answered simply.

She looked round at him; he was gazing at her and as their glances met she faintly coloured, but her eyes continued steadfast.

They were a strange contrast, she in her youth' and candour, in her spotless gown and linen, he in his worn maturity, his shabby clothes, his dark face sad and thoughtful, his reserved manner, his courtesy; yet they had something in common, for each had flung aside the shackles life had hung on them and now stood free.

And each nursed a dream; and though his was to free a nation, establish a religion and enthrone freedom securely in Europe, and hers was but to have her own house and her man to tend and her baby in her arms, still each was equally sincere, equally passionate, and this gave them in common the steadfastness imparted by a burning desire and a deep resolve.

For even as William meant to accomplish his tremendous aims, so Charlotte meant to accomplish her hidden hopes, but while he was active she was passive, while he strove she waited.

"If it should be Count Louis," he said, "I should be glad."

"I thank you for that," she answered, "but you speak of what is not in the hearts of either of us, Monseigneur."

While he was silent she spoke again, as if she had completely dismissed Count Louis from her thoughts. "Your Highness leaves here to-day?"

"Yes."

His face became graver; he had allowed himself this rare interval of distraction, with a feeling of relief, and now he thought with distaste upon the resumption of his task: "If I had my own home," he thought strangely, "this work of mine would seem different to me."

The thoughts of the Princess were working on different lines.

She leant forward a little, greatly interested.

"Your Highness has hopes from my country?"

"France could do everything."

"Alas, that my people are Catholic and on the side of your Highness's enemies."

"At least you are not," he said.

He put out his hand and took hers.

"You are my friend, are you not? Mademoiselle, good wishes such as yours do help as well as armies."

"But I would rather give you the armies," she smiled, colouring a little and letting her hand lie in his while she looked at him with her truthful eyes.

He kissed the fingers he held, then rose.

"I hope you will have good news of me," he said, "but you must expect bad, Mademoiselle. Meanwhile my pleasant hours pass, and I must leave Heidelberg."

She rose also and they looked at each other wistfully, as it they had more to say than words could at that moment express.

Then they parted.

He returned to the Castle to take his leave and Charlotte remained in the garden.

The bright sunshine of the early day had now changed into a fitful light obscured by clouds, the air became chilly and the Princess drew her wrap closer.

Presently she began gathering the snowdrops and Rénée, who had not returned to the palace, now perceived she was alone and joined her.

"The Prince has gone?" she asked.

"He has left to take his leave of the Elector," replied Charlotte.

She showed Rénée her flowers, but the other woman looked at the Princess and disliked her serene face.

"What a life is this!" she exclaimed.

Charlotte gave her a glance of surprise.

"You are tired of Heidelberg?"

"Tired of life."

"Why?"

"Your Highness would not understand."

"I do not know," replied Charlotte gravely. "I understand what it is to be dull and unhappy; you forget how many years I was a nun."

Rénée laughed bitterly.

"For longer years I have been a waiting-woman, exiled, dependent on charity."

"It is a weary life—it must be," said the Princess gently. Rénée was surprised, but not softened by her sympathy. "I think I will end it," she said with a sigh.

"How can you?"

"Some way—any way—I could return to the Netherlands—even on foot, and die as others are dying, every day."

"You serve better by waiting—the tide will turn—perhaps soon."

"I am tired of waiting," said Rénée passionately.

"I know—I know how tired I was, of the eventless life, the even days."

"But your Highness," said Rénée, "had the fortune to gain release."

"I had to make my own fortune."

"But you were a Princess, with powerful friends. I have no one. I am so obscure no one cares if I live or die; why should they, since neither my living nor dying can make any difference to any one."

She turned away abruptly, but not before the Princess had seen the tears in her eyes.

Charlotte put her hand on the elder woman's sleeve, and spoke, without attempting to look into her averted face.

"I do not know your special grief," she said gently, "but if it is mere loneliness—I know indeed what you suffer—believe me."

She paused a moment, then added sadly—

"Do you suppose that I am happy? Am I not also dependent on charity? Are these kind people my people? or even of my nation? I also am hopeless, penniless, cast out."

Rénée was silent.

"If ever," continued the Princess simply, "I should have the happiness to have a home, you shall share it."

Rénée turned and looked at her wildly.

"Truly your Highness does not understand," she said in a low voice. "Your Highness must forgive me—I am not well to-day. These winds give me pains in my head—I speak more than I mean and of things I do not understand how to express."

She moved away; Charlotte, looking after, shook her head.

More than once this barrier had come between them, friendly as they had been during their short acquaintance. Charlotte did not know, though Rénée did, that it was the difference in their natures that came between them, Charlotte was incapable of feeling passion or even of understanding it, and Rénée was capable of assuming, but not of feeling, the calm serenity that maintained the Princess through all her misfortunes.

Charlotte returned to the Castle and went to join the Electress in the still-room.

She did not even know exactly the hour when the Prince left the Castle, but Rénée was at an upper window watching for his departure.

She saw him ride away, wrapped in the shabby cloak, and her gaze followed him until the walls of Heidelberg hid him from her view.

And her heart ached after him with a great and intolerable yearning.

If she could have ridden behind him—as his foot-boy—as his slave, if she could be with him, to soften ever so little his troubles and discomforts—

But she was—as ever, useless.

And now he had gone and she must live on rumours again, such scraps of news as she could gather from people who never considered that she had any special interest in, or right to know of, the doings of William of Orange.

Long she remained looking from the window, gazing at the dull grey clouds that now filled the sky.

She recalled other times when she had watched him ride forth from his house in Brussels—his attire, his gay face, the gentlemen who had crowded round him, men who had all fallen victims to the wrath and the guile of Philip.

Egmont and Hoorne, who had died by public execution in the market-place, Berghen and Floris Montmorency, inveigled to Spain and strangled or poisoned in Spanish jails, Hoogstraaten and Adolphus of Nassau dead in battle, poor brave Brederode dead of a broken heart, who now was left of all those gallant nobles who had defied the tyrant king and the bigot priest? None save these two ruined men, William and Louis of Nassau.

"And how long have they?" thought Rénée, "for they also are under the ban of Spain."

She trembled for the lonely rider she had just seen depart and the tears washed the tired eyes that had so often wept for the Netherlands and William of Orange.