The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (old books to read .TXT) 📖

change, and speedily,” said he. “You tavern-keepers are more likely to rob me than I you.”

While the supper was preparing, Denys disappeared, and was eventually found by Gerard in the yard, helping Manon, his plump but not bright decoy duck, to draw water, and pouring extravagant compliments into her dullish ear. Gerard grunted and returned to table, but Denys did not come in for a good quarter of an hour.

“Uphill work at the end of a march,” said he, shrugging his shoulders.

“What matters that to you!” said Gerard drily. “The mad dog bites all the world.”

“Exaggerator. You know I bite but the fairer half. Well, here comes supper; that is better worth biting.”

During supper the girl kept constantly coming in and out, and looking point-blank at them, especially at Denys; and at last in leaning over him to remove a dish, dropped a word in his ear; and he replied with a nod.

As soon as supper was cleared away, Denys rose and strolled to the door, telling Gerard the sullen fair had relented, and given him a little rendezvous in the stable-yard.

Gerard suggested that the calf-pen would have been a more appropriate locality. “I shall go to bed, then,” said he, a little crossly. “Where is the landlord? out at this time of night? no matter. I know our room. Shall you be long, pray?”

“Not I. I grudge leaving the fire and thee. But what can I do? There are two sorts of invitations a Burgundian never declines.”

Denys found a figure seated by the well. It was Manon; but instead of receiving him as he thought he had a right to expect, coming by invitation, all she did was to sob. He asked her what ailed her? She sobbed. Could he do anything for her? She sobbed.

The good-natured Denys, driven to his wits' end, which was no great distance, proffered the custom of the country by way of consolation. She repulsed him roughly. “Is it a time for fooling?” said she, and sobbed.

“You seem to think so,” said Denys, waxing wroth. But the next moment he added tenderly, “and I, who could never bear to see beauty in distress.”

“It is not for myself.”

“Who then? your sweetheart?”

“Oh, que nenni. My sweetheart is not on earth now: and to think I have not an ecu to buy masses for his soul;” and in this shallow nature the grief seemed now to be all turned in another direction.

“Come, come,” said Denys, “shalt have money to buy masses for thy dead lad; I swear it. Meantime tell me why you weep.”

“For you.”

“For me? Art mad?”

“No; I am not mad. 'Tis you that were mad to open your purse before him.”

The mystery seemed to thicken, and Denys, wearied of stirring up the mud by questions, held his peace to see if it would not clear of itself. Then the girl, finding herself no longer questioned, seemed to go through some internal combat. At last she said, doggedly and aloud, “I will. The Virgin give me courage? What matters it if they kill me, since he is dead? Soldier, the landlord is out.”

“Oh, is he?”

“What, do landlords leave their taverns at this time of night? also see what a tempest! We are sheltered here, but t'other side it blows a hurricane.”

Denys said nothing.

“He is gone to fetch the band.”

“The band! what band?”

“Those who will cut your throat and take your gold. Wretched man; to go and shake gold in an innkeeper's face!”

The blow came so unexpectedly it staggered even Denys, accustomed as he was to sudden perils. He muttered a single word, but in it a volume.

“Gerard!”

“Gerard! What is that? Oh, 'tis thy comrade's name, poor lad. Get him out quick ere they come; and fly to the next town.”

“And thou?”

“They will kill me.”

“That shall they not. Fly with us.”

“'Twill avail me nought: one of the band will be sent to kill me. They are sworn to slay all who betray them.”

“I'll take thee to my native place full thirty leagues from hence, and put thee under my own mother's wing, ere they shall hurt a hair o' thy head. But first Gerard. Stay thou here whilst I fetch him!”

As he was darting off, the girl seized him convulsively, and with all the iron strength excitement lends to women. “Stay me not! for pity's sake,” he cried; “'tis life or death.”

“Sh!—sh!” whispered the girl, shutting his mouth hard with her hand, and putting her pale lips close to him, and her eyes, that seemed to turn backwards, straining towards some indistinct sound.

He listened.

He heard footsteps, many footsteps, and no voices. She whispered in his ear, “They are come.” And trembled like a leaf.

Denys felt it was so. Travellers in that number would never have come in dead silence.

The feet were now at the very door.

“How many?” said he, in a hollow whisper.

“Hush!” and she put her mouth to his very ear. And who, that had seen this man and woman in that attitude, would have guessed what freezing hearts were theirs, and what terrible whispers passed between them?

“How armed?”

“Sword and dagger: and the giant with his axe. They call him the Abbot.”

“And my comrade?”

“Nothing can save him. Better lose one life than two. Fly!”

Denys's blood froze at this cynical advice. “Poor creature, you know not a soldier's heart.”

He put his head in his hands a moment, and a hundred thoughts of dangers baffled whirled through his brain.

“Listen, girl! There is one chance for our lives, if thou wilt but be true to us. Run to the town; to the nearest tavern, and tell the first soldier there, that a soldier here is sore beset, but armed, and his life to be saved if they will but run. Then to the bailiff. But first to the soldiers. Nay, not a word, but buss me, good lass, and fly! men's lives hang on thy heels.”

She kilted up her gown to run. He came round to the road with her, saw her cross the road cringing with fear, then glide away, then turn into an erect shadow, then melt