Читать книгу Vivienne - Rita - Страница 8

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ON and on over the narrow bridle-path, fleet as the wind, and mad with the wild, glad sense of freedom, the chestnut flew along. And pale and white her rider sat, grasping desperately at the reins which were now powerless to check the furious animal.

Her eyes were fixed on the road before her, the long, stretching, shelterless road into which the forest path opened; once that road was reached there was no danger. The horse would tire in time of this tremendous pace; it could not last, and she was not afraid of keeping her seat, even though the swift motion made her giddy, and the little hands clutching the reins so desperately were cut and bleeding with the strain.

But the path was narrow, and the great trees, with their wide-spreading branches, made it difficult to guide any horse even at a moderate pace. Again and again Blanche bent her head down to the very saddle-bow, to avoid being struck by some low branch; her hat was carried away, her habit caught and torn, her breath came in low, quick gasps. Would the road never be reached; would the speed never slacken?

It was near now, stretching white and distinct before her in the bright glare of the blinding sunshine. They must reach it soon.

But the mare thought otherwise; suddenly she swerved aside with a swift, sidelong movement. There was a crash, a fall, and her rider fell from the saddle, stunned by the blow of the huge, projecting branch which had struck her unprotected head. Fortunately her foot was not entangled in the stirrup, or a fearful fate might have been hers. As it was she lay motionless at the foot of the tree, while the chestnut freed from its burden dashed madly along, and was lost to sight in an instant.

The sight of the prostrate figure, with the long, loose trail of its golden hair streaming over the mossy ground, struck with a strange dread to Raoul de Verdreuil's heart as he came up to it at last. He checked his horse, and hastily fastening the bridle-rein to the nearest branch, approached the motionless woman.

He bent over her as she lay white and still on the dank, mossy roots of the tree. There seemed no breath or life in her. The beautiful face was like marble; the smooth brow had one dark, terrible bruise on it, where the heavy branch had struck it. There was no flutter of life in the pulse, no throb or beat in the heart beneath the dark, closely-fitting riding-habit. Raoul felt alarmed. He scarcely knew what to do.

Involuntarily he loosed the bodice of her habit at the throat, and raising the beautiful head from the ground, rested it on his arm. Water there was none at hand he knew, but he fancied she was only stunned by the fall, and trusted to nature to bring her round.

In a moment or two he knew he was right, for he felt a faint, fluttering sigh breathe from the lips over which he bent; then a quick, tremulous, shiver ran through her whole frame, and Blanche de Verdreuil's eyes opened on the grave, anxious face above. A faint blush flushed the marble whiteness of her skin as she tried to withdraw from his arm; but her strength was not equal to the exertion, and her eyes closed again.

Raoul held a flask to her lips, which he drew from his riding-coat, and forced a few mouthfuls of its contents down her throat. It seemed as if the cordial revived her immediately, for her eyes opened again and fastened on Raoul's face with an eager, passionate glance, that even her weakness and her danger could not withhold.

"Are you much hurt?" he asked anxiously. "No, don't move yet, you may faint again. Rest quietly for a few moments, and then I will help you to rise."

She did not answer; the white-veined lids drooped over her beautiful eyes, and she leant silently against him. How beautiful she looked at that moment! Even Raoul, cold and indifferent as he was, felt that thought stealing through his heart, as the faint colour slowly warmed her face, and the rich bloom returned to her lips, and the heavy fragrant tresses of her loosened hair swept across his breast, on which her head rested so wearily and languidly.

Involuntarily the thought crossed him—"If the soul within was as perfect as the form, this woman would be irresistible indeed."

"I hope you are not injured, madame," he said presently. "I fear that fall was a terrible one at the speed you were going."

"I don't think I am much hurt," she answered faintly; "only bruised and shaken. I can't remember anything after the bough struck me. I only wonder how I managed to get free of the stirrup, and escape being dragged along by that terrible mare!"

"You would ride her in spite of remonstrances," said Raoul. "I only wonder your life has not paid the penalty of your wilfulness."

"You would not care if it had!" she exclaimed, trying to draw herself away from his supporting arm. "Oh, Raoul, if you only knew how little I value my life, you would not wonder at my recklessness."

Raoul's face grew strangely pale at the impetuous words. Involuntarily his thoughts travelled back to a time, when in the brilliant beauty of a southern land, a fair girl face had smiled upon him; a reckless, passionate love been cast at his feet—a love which he had neither wooed, nor valued. With that memory came back the old haughty scorn which his momentary pity had driven from his face. In her weakness and helplessness this woman was even more hateful to him than before, because she could claim his pity and enforce his assistance.

"I fancy the others will be here soon," he said, purposely ignoring her last words. "Estelle took their road; if they see her riderless, they will be sure to return to see whether there has been any accident."

"I hope they will not," exclaimed Blanche. "I don't want them now. I am thankful they were not near me; thankful even for the accident which might have been my death, because,"—she paused and looked at him with glowing, passionate eyes—"because, Raoul, for once you have been kind, for once I have seen you gentle; because for these few moments of your care, I could almost—die—content."

"Oh, hush?" he said, pained and distressed beyond words at this wild, impetuous outburst. "You do not think what you are saying."

"Do I not?" she cried, with a faint laugh, merciless in its scorn of her own weakness. "Do I not? I know it only too well. I shall know it all my life—I shall know it till I learn to hate you for the pain, and the misery, and the shame of it all, as I pray to hate you and—cannot."

"Madame!"—The proud, grave face beside her burned hotly with the shame that she did not seem to feel for herself—"Madame, I cannot listen to such words. Even your weakness is no excuse for what is dishonour to you as a wife and a woman."

"How stern and cold you are! Merciless and proud—is that not the creed of you de Verdreuils? All the waves of a woman's love may beat and dash themselves against that firm, invincible rock of pride and self-restraint which your race possess, and beat in vain. Oh, Raoul! Raoul!" and suddenly bending her face on her clasped hands, she burst into a paroxysm of tears and sobs, which shook her from head to foot.

Raoul gazed at her in silent amazement and bitter wrath. That this woman—his father's wife, the mistress of his home—should so give herself over to the shame and senselessness of this unsought love for him, was a humiliation deep and intense, all the more so because of his own pride of will, and force of self restraint, which could neither comprehend nor make allowances for her own deficiency in those qualities.

Fortunately at this moment the rapid sound of horses' feet was audible in the distance, and, with an expression of intense relief, Raoul exclaimed, "I hear the others coming, madame. Do you think you could manage to sit up alone now?"

She flushed crimson all over her delicate face and throat, and drew herself swiftly away from his arm.

"I think so," she said, her voice changing from its tremulous tones, and growing cold and proud as his own. "Thank you for all your assistance, monsieur. If you will lend me your hand, I think I can rise and stand now."

Raoul assisted her to her feet in silence. She was evidently only bruised and shaken, as she had said, for she was quite able to stand.

"What a dreadful object I must look!" she said presently, as she began twisting up the fallen shower of hair which covered her like a mantle. "Is my forehead very much bruised? It feels twice its size, somehow."

"The bruise is swelling, I think," said Raoul, intensely relieved by the matter-of-fact tone the conversation had assumed. "But you can soon have remedies applied when you get home, madame. Ah! and that reminds me, how are you to get home? Can you ride, do you think?"

"What horse can I have?" she questioned doubtfully. "No, monsieur, I see nothing for it but to wait here till I have a carriage sent from the château."

"I will ride back then and order it," said Raoul eagerly. "The others will be here in a moment, and you can explain the accident. In less than an hour I hope to be back, madame."

He hastily mounted his horse, and rode off just as Blanche became the centre of an eager, sympathising group, all full of curiosity and alarm, and offers of assistance, which she laughingly declined, declaring herself to have been more frightened than hurt.

Raoul did not return with the carriage. The old Count de Verdreuil had hastened in great anxiety and alarm to the scene of the disaster; but Blanche, now quite recovered from the effects of her fall, was not as pleased at his concern as she might have been, and treated his anxiety with ridicule, and even indifference. All the way home she maintained a rigid silence; and her husband gazing fondly and adoringly at the pale, lovely face, wondered a little at its unusual gravity. When she reached the château she went straight to her own rooms, nor did she appear among the guests any more that night, pleading fatigue and indisposition as her excuse.