The Bronze Eagle (35 page)

Like elfin music—tender, fitful, dreamy!—an exquisite languor stole
into Crystal's limbs. She was not asleep, yet she was in dreamland—all
alone in semi-darkness, that was restful and soothing, and with the
fragrance of crimson roses in her nostrils and their velvety petals
brushing against her cheek.

Like elfin music!—sweet strains of infinite sadness—the tune of the
Infinite mingling with the semblance of reality!

Like elfin music—or like the voice of a human being in pain—the note
of sadness became the only real note now!

What really happened after this Crystal never rightly knew. Whenever in
the future her memory went back to this hour, she could not be sure
whether in truth she had been waking or dreaming, or at what precise
moment she became fully conscious of a presence close beside her—just
behind the bank of roses—and of a voice—low, earnest, quivering with
passionate emotion—that reached her ear as if through the tender
melodies played by the orchestra.

[Pg 274]
It almost seemed to her—when she thought over all the circumstances in
her mind—that she must have been subtly conscious of the presence all
along—all the while that Maurice was still with her and she felt so
curiously languid, longing only for darkness and solitude.

Something encompassed her now that she could not define: the warmth of
Love, the sense of protection and security—almost as if unseen arms,
that were strong and devoted and selfless, held her closely, shielding
her from evil and from the taint of selfish human passions.

And presently she heard her name—whispered low and with a note of
tender appeal.

Her eyes were closed and she paid no heed: but the appeal was once more
whispered—this time more insistently, and almost against her will she
murmured:

"Who calls?"

"An unfortunate whom you hate and despise, and who would have given his
life to serve you."

"Who is it?" she reiterated.

"A poor heart-broken wretch who could not keep away from your side, and
longed for one more sound of your voice even though it uttered words
more cruel than man can stand."

"What would you like to hear?"

"One word of comfort to ease that terrible sting of hate which has
burned into my very soul, till every minute of life has become
unendurable agony."

"How could I know," she asked, and now her eyes were wide open, gazing
out into nothingness, not turned yet in the direction whence that
dream-voice came: "how could I know that my hatred made you suffer or
that you cared for comfort from me?"

"How could you know, Crystal?" the voice replied. "You could know that,
my dear, just as surely as you know that in a stormy night the sky is
dark, just as you know that
[Pg 275]
when heavy clouds obscure the blue ether
above, no ray of sunshine warms the shivering earth. Just as you know
that you are beautiful and exquisite, so you knew, Crystal, that I loved
you from the deepest depths of my soul."

"How could I guess?"

"By that subtle sense which every human being has. And you did guess it,
Crystal, else you would not have hated me as you did."

"I hated you because I thought you a traitor."

"Is it too late to swear to you that my only thought was to serve you?
. . ."

"By working against my King and country?" she retorted with just this
one brief flash of her old vehemence.

"By working for my country and for yours. This I swear by your sweet
eyes—by your dear mouth that hurt me so cruelly that evening—I swear
it by the damnable agony which you made me endure . . . by the abject
cowardice which dragged me to your side now like a whining wretch that
craves for a crumb of comfort . . . by all that you have made me suffer.
. . . Crystal, I swear to you that I was never false . . . false, great
God! when with every drop of my blood, with every fibre of my heart,
with every nerve, every sinew, every thought I love you."

The voice was so low, never above a whisper, and all around her Crystal
felt again that delicious sense of warmth—the breath of Love that
brings man's heart so near to God—the sense of security in a man's
all-encompassing Love which women prize above everything else on earth.

The music was just an accompaniment to that low, earnest whispering; the
soft strains of the violins made it still seem like a voice that comes
through a veil of dreams. Instinctively Crystal began to hum the
waltz-tune and her little head with its quaint coronet of fair curls
beat time to the languid lilt.

"Will you dance with me, Crystal?"

[Pg 276]
"No! no!" she protested.

"Just once—to-night. To-morrow we fight—let us dance to-night."

And before she could protest further, her will seemed to fall away from
her: she knew that her father, her aunt would be angry, that—as like as
not—Maurice would make a scene. She knew that Maurice—to whom she had
plighted her troth—had branded this man as a liar and a traitor: her
father believed him to be a traitor, and she . . . Well! what had he
done to disprove Maurice's accusations? A few words of passionate
protestations! . . . Did they count? . . . He wore his King's
uniform—many careless adventurers did that these strenuous times! . . .

And he wanted her to dance . . . ! how could she—Crystal de Cambray,
the future wife of the Marquis de St. Genis, the cynosure of a great
many eyes to-night—how could she show herself in public on his arm, in
a crowded ballroom?

Yet she could not refuse. She could not. Surely it was all a dream, and
in a dream man is but the slave of circumstance and has no will of his
own.

She was very young and loved to dance: and she had heard that Englishmen
danced well. Besides, it was all a dream. She would wake in a moment or
two and find herself sitting quietly among the roses with Maurice beside
her, telling her of his love, and of their happy future together.

But in the meanwhile the dream was lasting. Her partner was a perfect
dancer, and this new, delicious waltz—inspiriting yet languorous,
rhythmical and half barbaric—sent a keen feeling of joy and of zest
into Crystal's whole being.

She was not conscious of the many stares that were levelled at her as
she suddenly appeared among the crowd in the ballroom, her face flushed
with excitement, her per
[Pg 277]
fect figure moving with exquisite grace to the
measure of the dance.

The last dance together!

A few moments before, Clyffurde had made his way to the small boudoir in
search of fresh air, and had withdrawn to a window embrasure away from a
throng that maddened him in his misery of loneliness: then he realised
that Crystal was sitting quite close to him, that St. Genis, who had
been in constant attendance on her, presently left her to herself and
that without even moving from where he was he could whisper into her ear
that which had lain so heavily on his heart that at times he had felt
that it must break under the intolerable load.

Then as the soft strains of the music from the orchestra struck upon his
ear, the insistent whim seized him to make her dance with him, just
once—to-night. To-morrow the cannon would roar once more—to-morrow
Europe would make yet another stand against the bold adventurer whom
seemingly nothing could crush.

To-morrow a bullet—a bayonet—a sword-thrust—but to-night a last dance
together.

Those whims come at times to those who are doomed to die. Clyffurde's
one hope of peace lay in death upon the battlefield. Life was empty now.
He had fought against the burden of loneliness left upon him when
Crystal passed finally out of his life. But the burden had proved
unconquerable. Only death could ease him of the load: for life like this
was stupid and intolerable.

Men would die within the next few days in their hundreds and in their
thousands: men who were happy, who had wives and children, men on whose
lives Love shed its happy radiance. Then why not he? who was more lonely
than any man on earth—left lonely because the one woman who filled all
the world for him, hated him and was gone from him for ever.

[Pg 278]
But a last dance with her to-night! The right to hold her in his arms!
this he had never done, though his muscles had often ached with the
longing to hold her. But dancing with her he could feel her against him,
clasp her closely, feel her breath against his cheek.

She was not very tall and her head—had she chosen—could just have
rested in the hollow of his shoulder. The thought of it sent the blood
rushing hotly to his head and with his two strong hands he would at that
moment have bent a bar of iron, or smashed something to atoms, in order
to crush that longing to curse against Fate, against his destiny that
had so wantonly dangled happiness before him, only to thrust him into
utter loneliness again.

Then he spoke to her—and finally asked for the dance.

And now he held her, and guided her through the throng, her tiny feet
moving in unison with his. And all the world had vanished: he had her to
himself, for these few happy moments he could hold her and refuse to let
her go. He did not care—nor did she—that many curious and some angry
glances followed their every movement. Till the last bar was played,
till the final chord was struck she was absolutely his—for she had
given up her will to him.

The last dance together! He sent his heart to her, all his heart—and
the music helped him, and the rhythm; the very atmosphere of the
room—rose-scented—helped him to make her understand. He could have
kissed her hair, so close were the heaped-up fair curls to his mouth; he
could have whispered to her, and nobody would hear: he could have told
her something at any rate, of that love which had filled his heart since
all time, not months or years since he had known her, but since all time
filling every minute of his life. He could have taught her what love
meant, thrilled her heart with thoughts of might-have-been; he could
have roused sweet pity in her soul, love's gentle mother that has the
power to give birth to Love.

[Pg 279]
But he did not kiss her, nor did he speak: because though he was quite
sure that she would understand, he was equally sure that she could not
respond. She was not his—not his in the world of realities, at any
rate. Her heart belonged to the friend of her childhood, the only man
whom she would ever love—the man by whom he—poor Bobby!—had been
content to be defamed and vilified in order that she should remain happy
in her ideals and in her choice. So he was content only to hold her, his
arm round her waist, one hand holding hers imprisoned—she herself
becoming more and more the creature of his dreams, the angel that
haunted him in wakefulness and in sleep: immortally his bride, yet never
to be wholly his again as she was now in this heavenly moment where they
stood together within the pale of eternity.

In this, their last dance together!

Far into the night, into the small hours of the morning, Crystal de
Cambray sat by the open window of her tiny bedroom in the small
apartment which her father had taken for himself and his family in the
rue du Marais.

She sat, with one elbow resting on the window-sill, her right hand
fingering, with nervy, febrile movements, a letter which she held.
Jeanne had handed it to her when she came home from the ball: M. de St.
Genis, Jeanne explained, had given it to her earlier in the evening
. . . soon after ten o'clock it must have been . . . M. le Marquis
seemed in a great hurry, but he made Jeanne swear most solemnly that
Mademoiselle Crystal should have the letter as soon as she came home
. . . also M. le Marquis had insisted that the letter should be given to
Mademoiselle when she was alone.

Not a little puzzled—for had she not taken fond leave of Maurice
shortly before ten o'clock, when he had told
[Pg 280]
her that his orders were
to quit the ball then and report himself at once at headquarters. He had
seemed very despondent, Crystal thought, and the words which he spoke
when finally he kissed her, had in them all the sadness of a last
farewell. Crystal even had felt a tinge of remorse—when she saw how sad
he was—that she had not responded more warmly to his kiss. It almost
seemed as if her heart rebelled against it, and when he pressed her with
his accustomed passionate ardour to his breast, she had felt a curious
shrinking within herself, a desire to push him away, even though her
whole heart went out to him with pity and with sorrow.

And now here was this letter. Crystal was a long time before she made up
her mind to open it: the paper—damp with the rain—seemed to hold a
certain fatefulness within its folds. At last she read the letter, and
long after she had read it she sat at the open window, listening to the
dreary, monotonous patter of the rain, and to the distant sounds of
moving horses and men, the rattle of wheels, the bugle calls, the
departure of the allied troops to meet the armies of the great
adventurer on the billowing plains of Belgium.

This is what Maurice had written to her a few moments before he left;
and it must have taken him some time to pen the lengthy epistle.