Eleanore gave a sudden, involuntary sob; for none had pronounced that name to her since the early spring. The sob was answer enough to Gerault’s question. But in a moment she said, in a voice that was perfectly controlled: “Methinks I love her, thy lady, already. Ah, my son, she is very sweet! Very, very sweet and fair!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LOST LENORE
When Gerault left her to go to his mother’s room, on that first evening in the Castle that was to be her home, Lenore was still fully dressed. As soon as she was alone, however, she made herself ready for the night; and then, wrapping herself about in her long day-mantle, went to a window overlooking the sea, and sat there waiting for her lord’s return. Now that the excitement of the day, of the arrival, of meeting so many new people, all eager to make her welcome, was over, Lenore began to feel herself very weary, a little homesick, a little wistful, and tremulously eager for Gerault’s speedy return. She clung to the thought of him and her newly risen love, with pathetic anxiety. Was it not lawful and right that she should love him? Was it not equally lawful and therefore equally certain that he must love her? She knew little enough of love and of men, young Lenore; yet this idea came to her instinctively, and it seemed impossible that it could be otherwise. It was so recently that she had been a little girl in all her thoughts and pleasures and habits, that this sudden transition to the dignified estate of wifehood had left her singularly helpless, singularly dependent on the man whom she had married out of duty and fallen in love with afterwards, on the way from Rennes. Gerault helped her, in his way. He was kind, he was gentle, was solicitous for her comfort, and required of her nothing but a quiet demeanor. But that he failed in some way to give her what was her due, the young girl rather felt than knew.
While she waited here alone, looking out upon the lonely sea, that was so new and so wonderful a sight to her, the Lady Lenore bitterly regretted and took herself to task for her gayety of the evening. The silly games that she had once so loved to play—alas! he had not joined in them, doubtless thought them trivial and unbecoming in a woman grown and married! She had made herself a fool before him! He was older than she, and wiser, and a gallant knight. Lenore’s cheeks flushed with pride as she remembered how he could joust and tilt at the ring. She remembered when she had first seen him, from the gallery of the list at Rennes, when he unseated the Seigneur Geoffrey Cartel. This lordly sport was as simple to him as her games to her. Little wonder that she had exhausted his patience! And yet—if he would but come to her now! She was so sadly weary; and it grew so late. Her little body ached, her temples throbbed, her eyes burned with the past glare of the sun on the white dust, and the recent flickering light of the torches. If he would but come back, and forgive her her childishness, and kiss her before she slept, she would be very happy.
In point of fact Gerault did come soon. Knowing that Lenore must be weary, he remained but a short time with his mother, and returned immediately to his wife. The moment that he entered the room, Lenore rose from her place, and ran to him with a faint cry of delight.
“At last thou art come! Thou art come!” she said indistinctly, not wanting him to hear the words, yet unable to keep from saying them.
“And didst thou sit up for me, child, and thou so weary? I went but to give my mother good-night, for thou knowest ’tis long since I saw her last. She sent thee her blessing and sweet rest; and my wish is fellow to hers. Come now, child.”