Our Lady of Darkness

by Bernard Capes

“I should like to think the matter over,” said he. “It is possible, at least, I may be able to serve madame with an avant-coureur.”

Madame seized his hands in an emotional grasp.

“My friend! my dear friend!” she murmured.

“And now,” said Ned, “with madame’s permission, I will take a turn in the garden.”

Had madame again the impression that she was “found out” of this unconscionable Joseph? She certainly flushed the little flush of shamefulness, and for the moment had not a plausible word at her command. For, indeed, she knew and, what was worse, believed that my lord knew that Pamela was at that very time seated by herself in the little box-arbour amongst the Jerusalem artichokes (the girl’s figure had been plainly visible through the doorway which madame had ordered over-late to be closed); and the sudden realisation of the situation was like a cold douche to her self-confidence. To deny this cavalier, on whatever pretext, the substance of his request, was assuredly to convict herself of having lied as to Pamela’s whereabouts; was to dismiss him at a critical moment; was, possibly, to deprive him of that actual inducement to serve her which an interview with the young lady might confirm. On the other hand, the girl herself may have profited by some indefinite warnings as to the folly of effecting a mésalliance; as to the ineffectiveness of a coronet when it is in pledge to the Jews.

Madame, after a scarcely appreciable moment of hesitation, came to her decision with a charming smile.

It was entirely at monsieur’s disposition, she said. There was not a soul in it, and she would see that monsieur was not disturbed. For herself, the contemplation of flowers resolved many problems that the subtlest sophistries were unable to disentangle.

Ned set foot on the long box-bordered path with his mind in a condition of strange ferment. The glamour of the previous night; the sweet glory of this new bidding to the side of his mistress (over which his soul laughed, as over its own humorous strategy in the hoodwinking of a credulous guardian); the thought that it was in his power to assist to its welfare the very dear object of his solicitude, and, by so assisting, to convert what might otherwise seem a pursuit into a welcome—such fancies combined made of his brain a house of pleasant dreams. All down the bed-rows the scent of blossoming mignonette accompanied him to the arbour at the end of the garden. To his dying day this gentle green flower remained the asphodel of his heaven. Great ships of cloud, carrying freightage of hidden stars, sailed slowly across the sky to ports beyond the vision of the world. Yet there did not seem enough wind to discrown a thistle-head. The lark rose straight as the smoke from the town chimneys, dropping a clew of song into the very gaping throats of his own nestlings in the field. The rattle of a horse’s headstall, the drowsy thunder of rolling skittle-balls, came over the wall from the neighbouring inn as distinct in their every vibration as though the silence of night, in a motionless atmosphere, had merged itself imperceptibly in the life of a day but half awake. And, behold! at the end of the garden was the crystallised expression of all this peace and beauty, the breathing spirit of the roses and of the mignonette. Ned, as he looked down upon her, had a thought that, if she woke, the wind would rise, the rose-leaves scatter, and the cloud argosies dash themselves shapeless on rocks of air.

How pretty she was! Great God, how pretty and how innocent! To him who had fronted stubbornly the storms of passion, who had been sought a sacrifice to the misconsecrated heats of a love whose name in consequence he had learned to loathe, this new power of reverence was most wonderful and most dear. He could have worshipped, had he not loved so humanly.

Mademoiselle was sunk a little back into the leafage of the arbour. Her eyes were closed, her lips a trifle parted. She was cuddled into a pink négligé. Everything she wore seemed to caress her. An open book lay upon her lap, one slender finger serving for listless marker in it.