Читать книгу Galahad - John Erskine - Страница 8

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If Arthur had not looked at Iseult, Galahad would not have been born. Or if Bromel had not come once more to plead with Elaine. Or if Bors, Lancelot’s cousin, had not happened to ride by King Pelles’ castle.

Bromel, of course, was hardly welcome, but he had to be let in.

“Haven’t you changed your mind at all?” he began.

“Oh, yes,” said Elaine. “I’m much wiser—improved to an extraordinary degree. I’d rather not joke about it. I’m sorry for you—I know how you feel.”

“You begin to understand!” he said. “I shall have your promise some day. I can wait.”

“I said I knew how you felt, but I don’t feel that way toward you. I don’t love you, Bromel. Let’s be friends—I can be a kinder friend than I was.”

“If you don’t love me, what’s the point of saying you’ve changed?”

“You said some sides of my nature were asleep. Well, they’ve all waked up. I don’t think contemptuously of love now, not even of marriage. I’d like to have children.”

“What has happened to you?”

“I told you. I’m wiser.”

“Haven’t you anything else to tell me?”

“Nothing.”

Bromel began to walk up and down the room. He stopped finally at the tower window. For some time he stood looking out.

“When I was here before,” he said, “your father was getting the place ready for Lancelot. He came, I suppose?”

“He did.”

“He must be quite a person,” said Bromel. “I spoke foolishly about him then, but I envy you that chance to see him.”

“I envy myself,” said Elaine. “I’d be glad to see him again. He was here only one night.”

“Would you mind telling me what he’s like?” said Bromel. “I confess to curiosity.”

“Tall—dark—deep eyes—a number of scars on his face. He’s only twenty-five, you know, and—well, he’s quite a person.”

“I don’t believe those stories about him,” said Bromel.

“You’d better; they’re true,” said Elaine. “He’s Guinevere’s lover.”

“Then I’m sorry,” said Bromel.

“So am I,” said Elaine.

“You thought it was all right before.”

“I think so now—but I’m sorry.”

Bromel walked back toward her.

“You are surer than ever that you won’t marry me?”

“Much surer.”

“Then I know what’s happened!”

“Do you?”

“You’ve met some one else.”

She took her embroidery—made an attempt at two or three stitches—put it down again. Bromel was looking at her. She looked back as hard as she could.

“I suppose I haven’t the right to ask the question,” said Bromel at last.

“Which one?”

“Whether you haven’t met some one else.”

“Oh, was that a question? I thought you made a statement. You are quite right, of course.”

“It’s Lancelot, then!”

“Who else?”

“And he loves you?”

“Now, that question should not be asked. What could I say if he didn’t? You ought to assume that he does. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t.”

“Nonsense!” said Bromel. “If he loved you, he’d tell you, but how would you know if he didn’t love you?”

“He told me,” said Elaine. “It seemed best, on the whole, to ask him.”

“Asked him if he loved you?”

“I could think of no other way to find out.”

Bromel stared as if life had gone from him.

“Don’t look at me so, Bromel. I started to be sorry for you, but you’ll make me laugh. I’m sorry for myself, too. Shall I tell you the whole story?”

“I should think no woman would care to spread such news about herself,” said Bromel.

“My mistake—I thought the secret would stay with you,” said Elaine. “You’re right again. Good-by, Bromel.... Aren’t you going?” The tone of her voice roused the fat spaniel by her side. He got up and moved over toward Bromel. “Come back here, Arthur—lie down!” said Elaine. The spaniel lay down.

“I don’t want to go,” said Bromel, “and I’d like to hear whatever you care to tell me.”

“There’s less pleasure in it now,” said Elaine. “The moment has passed. Oh, well, I won’t make a mystery of it. It’s very simple. A few days ago I loved nobody—now I love Lancelot. I told him so, and naturally he said it was impossible. He gave no reason, but of course I can guess. Yet I believe I shall have him, in the end. As Guinevere can’t have him.”

“I don’t understand you at all.”

“Lancelot says nobody really loves who doesn’t want children.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“Everything.”

“I’m shocked beyond measure!”

“You would be, Bromel.”

“Fortunately there’s no danger. Only one kind of woman would do such a thing.”

“Those with the maternal instinct.”

“Absurd! You haven’t the maternal instinct. You just want Lancelot.”

“Well, I promise you this—I shan’t propose to him unless I know he will accept. Don’t worry about me, Bromel—I shall manage somehow.”

Again Bromel walked slowly up and down the room, with his eyes on the floor.

“You take it awfully well,” she said, “and I can’t forget the hours you’ve spent on me. We’ve become good companions, just diagnosing my heart. I’m afraid I’m selfish.”

He stopped and looked at her.

“It won’t make you happy.”

“What won’t?”

“Having a child.”

“Bromel! What shocking words from your lips!”

“It won’t make you happy, Elaine.”

“It would make him happy.”

“It wouldn’t! The misery that would come to you both from such an experiment!”

“It’s not an experiment. Remember how often it has happened before. Men and women have been here a long time.”

“It has happened before, but it never came out well. Lancelot will remember that. Do you mind telling me—does he know anything yet about your designs?”

“Not a word. I’ve trusted you, Bromel. You could spoil the whole thing by warning him.”

“There’s no point in warning him. He might think it none of my business, anyway. But as an old friend I suppose I ought to tell your father enough to put him on his guard.”

Elaine laid both hands on the arms of her chair, then sank back and looked at him.

“Tell my father if you like! Warn him of his coming grandchildren! You probably can’t keep the secret anyway. He’ll be surprised at the solicitude you show for his family fortunes! Tell him that as the rejected suitor you feel his descendants are in your care! Really, Bromel, you have much misplaced courage. When father gets through with you, do you think I shall respect you more for betraying my confidence?”

“You needn’t accuse me,” said Bromel. “Lancelot has stolen the love I should have had. I shan’t warn him—no doubt he’s aware of what he’s doing, and he has flattered you somehow into thinking that you are capturing him. You are to be his victim, I can see. I’ll explain it to your father, and then I’ll find Lancelot and challenge him.”

“I hoped you would enjoy a longer life! Just tell Lancelot you know he’s my lover, and see what happens to you. He belongs to Guinevere, I told you. But do what you like. Our friendship is at an end, and you’ll have no more confidences from me.”

“I don’t wish to quarrel with you, Elaine—”

“No quarrel at all. We have just ceased to be friends. Before parting I’ve told you what you now think you had better blab to the neighbors.”

“I shall warn your father that Lancelot is stealing you away,” said Bromel, “and then I’ll take my place by the bridge down there, where Lancelot must pass when he comes to you. I’ll have it out with him.”

Elaine laughed. “But, Bromel, he isn’t coming. I may never see him again. You don’t mean you’ll be waiting out there, day after day?”

“When I’ve spoken with your father, I’ll deal with your lover.”

As it turned out, he did not wait long. Late the next afternoon Sir Bors came riding that way and made for the bridge. Bromel stopped him.

“You are a tall man,” he said, “and rather dangerous-looking; I suspect you are the man I’m waiting for.”

“That may be,” said Bors. “Has your friend any particular name?”

“It’s no use being facetious, Sir Lancelot,” said Bromel.

“I’m not Sir Lancelot,” said Bors, “but if I can be of any service to you, I’m a relative of his.”

“He is the biggest rascal in his family,” said Bromel. “I’d rather meet him, but meanwhile you’ll do well enough.”

Sir Bors looked at him in silence for a moment. “Lancelot is no rascal, and the rest of his family, if you count the cousins like myself, are too numerous to discuss in detail. I’m sorry you have listened to lies about him.”

“I haven’t,” said Bromel. “He has stolen the heart of an inexperienced young woman here—I might almost say unprotected, except for what I can do. He intends to bring her to shame, unless I stop him. Don’t shake your head at me that way! Unless you wish to fight.”

“I never saw less need of fighting,” said Bors. “The whole thing is silly. I don’t know who you are, nor who the lady is, if she exists. I suspect you are out of your wits.”

“I am Sir Bromel—the lady is Elaine, in the castle there.”

“You don’t mean King Pelles’ daughter?”

“I thought you knew her,” said Bromel.

“I know King Pelles,” said Bors. “Suppose we go in together and find out what the trouble is?”

“Go where together?” cried Bromel. “You don’t cross this bridge unless you first take my life! You are false as Lancelot himself. I wouldn’t trust one of you.”

“I’m sorry you feel so,” said Bors, “but if you will have it—”

He drew back a few yards and then rode hard at Sir Bromel, whose chivalry was out of practise, except in the spiritual sense. Bors was inclined to laugh. A few passes and he had Bromel at his mercy.

“I’m sorry to kill you,” he said, “but it’s that or you take back the slander.”

“I’ll take it back, but it’s probably true.”

“As I said, I’m sorry,” repeated Bors, unlacing Bromel’s helmet.

“I take it back,” said Bromel.

“That’s better,” said Sir Bors, and let him up.

“I don’t see anything to laugh at,” said Bromel.

“Correct,” said Bors. “There’s nothing for you to laugh at. You have your life on one condition—go directly to the Court, find Lancelot, and apologize to him for what you have said.”

Bromel promised—in fact, offered to swear on the hilt of his sword.

“That’s all right,” said Bors. “Now you start looking for Lancelot, right across that bridge.”

He watched Bromel well down the road, then turned toward King Pelles’ castle.

Pelles received him in the great hall, where Lancelot had been entertained. Elaine heard it was Lancelot’s cousin, and joined them.

“A pleasure to see you, Sir Bors,” said the king. “And looking so well. You had no interruption on the road, I hope?”

“None to speak of,” said Bors.

“You found the bridge easy to cross?” said the king.

“Perfectly. There isn’t anything wrong with the bridge, is there?”

“No,” said the king. “The bridge is satisfactory. Have you seen your distinguished cousin recently?”

“Not very—I didn’t go to Lonazep,” said Bors. “I understand he and Tristram did well. They always do.”

“Was Iseult there?” asked Elaine. “I was going with father, but didn’t after all.”

“You should have gone. Yes, I believe Iseult was there.”

“Sir Lancelot admires her, doesn’t he? When he was here he spoke of her.”

“Now don’t let us get on that subject,” said Pelles. “My daughter, Sir Bors, is infatuated with him. I might as well tell you, before she does. If you’d do me a kindness, persuade your cousin not to come here again. I don’t want her to compromise herself further with so splendid a man—compromise him, I mean.”

“If you cared for the family reputation, father, you wouldn’t introduce me to Sir Bors in these terms. I do admire Sir Lancelot, but who doesn’t?”

“Quite right,” said Bors. “We are all devoted to him.”

“That’s not it—you don’t know,” said King Pelles. “When he was here a while ago my daughter talked to him with most daring frankness about the relations—I should say the intimate relations—of men and women, and before he left she made what I believe are called overtures. No doubt the whole Court has heard of my disgrace.”

“If you think Lancelot would talk about a woman,” said Bors, “you don’t know him. In this case he has had no occasion to be discreet. You are unjust to your daughter.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pelles. “I wish I were.”

“Sir Bors,” said Elaine, “I thank you for your trust in me. It’s a pity to bother you with our family disputes, but since my father has gone so far, I think he ought to lay before you what he thinks is the conclusive evidence. It’s at least amusing, and it does me no harm.”

“We’ll leave that to Sir Bors,” said the king. “There’s an admirable young man in the neighborhood who has been seeking my daughter’s hand. Yesterday he came to me with a story which I must believe, partly because I trust him, chiefly because his conduct supports it. He said Elaine had just told him she was desperately in love with Sir Lancelot, that she had declared her passion, and—I blush to add this essential detail—she had hopes of bearing him a child. My daughter now declares that Sir Bromel grossly misunderstood her or misrepresents her—that Lancelot does not love her, and never did—but Bromel is convinced that your cousin has somehow played false. He waits at the bridge to challenge Lancelot. Would he do that if he hadn’t good reason for what he told me?”

“He might be convinced and yet be wrong,” said Bors. “I don’t attach much weight myself to his judgment.”

“You know him?” said Pelles.

“We’ve met. I think I know him. He means well.”

“Since you know him,” said the king, “we might send for him to dinner. He’s probably down at the bridge.”

“Wouldn’t that be a happy reunion!” said Elaine. “When you put your mind on it, father, you certainly—”

“I’ve just come by the bridge,” said Bors. “He isn’t there.”

“Perhaps it’s as well,” said Pelles. “He feels strongly about this matter—as I do myself. Elaine, will you give orders for dinner, or shall I?”

“You, father. You do it much better.”

“I’ll be with you again in three minutes, Sir Bors,” said Pelles, and disappeared through the door.

“I suppose you understand,” said Elaine, “my father’s a fool.”

“I never thought that of him.”

“Think it now. I hope you didn’t kill Bromel.”

“Oh, no,” said Bors. “He tried to stop me—nothing more serious. There’s something on his mind.”

“I should say there was. What did you do with him, Sir Bors?”

“Sent him to beg Lancelot’s pardon for the charges he made.”

“Concerning me?”

“Yes.”

“Then the whole Court will hear of it!”

“I never thought of that,” said Bors. “It was a mistake to send him.”

“Oh, well, Lancelot will know I haven’t forgotten him,” said Elaine. “I really do love him, Sir Bors—that’s why Bromel and my father embarrass me. Lancelot is innocent of everything but his own charm.”

“I’ve seen this happen before,” said Bors. “Lancelot will understand. Let’s hope Sir Bromel doesn’t get to talk with Guinevere.”