LOYALTY holding Brigid silent concerning certain matters between her and the Lady Isabel, we, owing none, may well probe somewhat further, though doubtless the manner of the happening is already patent to you.

Isabel had found discovery exceeding unpleasant to her mind. A hidden good disclosed may irk men somewhat, a hidden evil disclosed will irk them very surely. Isabel brooked it not at all. Anger possessed her soul. Hereafter she would ever see reproach in the girl’s eyes, read condemnation in her very silence. So unpleasant a state of things was assuredly not to be suffered. Nor was it discovery alone that displeased her. Conscience pricking tardily showed her that night’s work as very ill. Compunction in a manner was present with her, yet no true sorrow. Desirous of forgetting it she was willing to profit by what knowledge it had brought her. Yet forgetfulness were impossible with Brigid’s eyes to remind her of it.

Her spirit rebelled at the thought. She would have all men see in her the perfection she desired them to perceive. An’ she could not lull Brigid’s mind to a like forgetfulness, wake once more in her the full homage she believed ever to have received of her, she desired her presence no longer. There was the matter very plainly. It lay wholly between her and the girl. The warfare—for such after a manner it became—had place in private. It was of brief duration. To outward seeming Isabel was the victor, yet to my thinking it was Brigid who had triumphed, since never for an instant had Isabel’s will gained the mastery over hers.

A faint whisper of evil, very subtly set afloat, caused the court to look askance at her. Some few cried, “I cannot believe it,” yet rather in false piety than as true statement of disbelief. Certainly the evil remained unproven, since none sought to prove it, caring little in the matter. As for Brigid, the whisper was too faint to gain her ears. Later it grew somewhat louder, when she was beyond its reach. Then it was left to Mary Chester to defend her, which she did right royally.

In the small hours of the morning Brigid rode away, the sun not far above the horizon, the dew yet heavy on the grass. Pippo, his arms full of flowers he had culled for her from the garden, was at the postern gate to watch her depart.

“God keep you,” he said as she took his flower burden from him. Peregrine using the salutation at times he now used it himself, though shyly.

“God keep you too, Pippo,” she said, smiling her thanks for his gift.

Anon, turning in her saddle, she waved her hand to him. Mary Chester’s friendship, and Pippo’s bright face were her pleasantest memories of the life she was leaving. Here, too, were the child’s flowers in her arms. Thus she rode away to Sangdieu, as we have seen.

Isabel rejoiced at her departure, felt herself free for the matter she had in hand. Throwing aside all thought of a certain night that June, she yet retained in part the memory of the words then given her.

“That which thou dost desire is above thee. Yet must thou stoop to attain it.”

On the further speech she did not care to dwell. This utterance sufficed her. Quick-witted, she saw very clearly the significance therein. It behooved her merely to act upon it. Here was a delicate matter, requiring careful handling. She had no mind to see herself caught in the meshes she would spread for another, a thing just possible to her shrewd thinking. She must throw the light cords deftly, that no breath of fancy should recoil them on herself. This, for all the seeming poetry of the task, would require an exceeding level head, a cool and very calculating judgment.

With care she conned the part she saw herself about to play, marked her entrance with the meshes, made very sure of her exits. Having it to her mind at her finger tips she waited for Chance to set the stage.

To leave matters to Chance is at times to leave matters half way to the Devil. An’ he is so minded he will come the other half to meet them. Verily to my thinking he did so now, took them in hand and arranged them with age-old skill, exceeding simply. And to this purpose he used a garden for his first setting.

Isabel walking in the garden one morning of soft air and sunshine saw Peregrine by the sundial. A favourite position this for our Jester.

Seating herself on the stone balustrade of the terrace she raised her hand, beckoned him to her. He came, stood before her, his eyes alight like a child’s who has been called by a close friend.

“I am weary,” she said softly.

“Truly, Madam!” quoth Peregrine very astonished. Here was no day for weariness. Sun-kissed, splendid in light and colour, the earth breathed vitality and joy.

“Of my own company,” said Isabel, smiling at his look.

“Madam,” stammered Peregrine, “I will fetch your women to you.”

She laughed outright very musically. “That is like to a man,” she said. “An’ they were here I were none the less weary.” She fetched a little sigh.

“Madam,” said Peregrine troubled.

She looked across the moorland, sadness in her eyes. “Aye,” she said on a faint note of bitterness, “soul-weary.”

“Madam,” said Peregrine for the third time, any word but the one hard to find.

“Methinks,” she said very low, “that the loneliness of a woman seemingly surrounded by many friends is a very bitter loneliness. She looks for understanding and finds it not. Those she has counted as truest to her may ofttimes play her false, revile her, and leave her. Yet to revile in turn were ill done. She must smile when her heart is sore; laugh when her spirit is bruised and bleeding, lest she bring sadness into other lives.” She stopped.

“Madam,” said Peregrine very earnestly, anger towards Brigid in his soul, “there is at least one heart would suffer death gladly for your sake.”

“Ah,” she smiled sadly, “at times I have dreamed so. Yet where can I put trust? They offer me homage with their lips yet none with their hearts. Outwardly they speak me fair, inwardly they see me shallow. Do you think me shallow, Peregrine?” Here was a note of pleading as from a child.

“Never,” said Peregrine hotly.

She looked at him very strangely. “An’ you speak so with your heart in your voice it tempts me to believe you. You are Jester, Peregrine; yet methinks the fool’s motley but hides the heart of a loyal man. Is it so, Peregrine?” She lingered on the name.

“Madam,” said Peregrine, the heart in question beating very hotly, “it beats in your service alone.”

“You, too, are lonely?”

“Madam, it was so at one time.”

“And now?”

“Since you have shown me favour, since you have deigned to see the man beneath the motley, my heart has been too full for loneliness.”

“I think,” she said softly, musing, “we understand each other very well. It is strange, is it not, it should be so? I, Isabel de Belisle, and you a Jester, the meanest of my household, so men would say, and we hold a bond of understanding between us. Let us not heed what men would say. I have told you they see me very shallow. ’Tis sweet to me to think you believe it not. Shall we keep our understanding a secret between us,” she held out her hand.

Dropping on one knee he kissed it very humbly. Had she demanded his soul from him at that instant he had given it, believing it were better in her keeping than in his own. Perchance she had spoken again, but Mary Chester came softly across the grass, saw the two with eyes faintly troubled.

Hereafter there were days of sweet glamour for Peregrine. That he was understood he had guessed before in part, as we have seen. Here now were the words from his lady’s very lips. Of all those who did her service none knew her as he knew her, none saw the depths beneath the sparkling surface, none saw the heart-loneliness beneath the radiant smile.

Days followed on days, outwardly the same, yet holding many an exchange of glances, many a tender half-uttered sigh, now and again an unwatched meeting. There were hours in her chamber when he sang to her among her women, each word holding a meaning known to the two alone; hours in the garden in the full radiance of sun and colour, when every bird that sang, when every flower that bloomed poured benediction on them; and—quintessence of joy—rare solitary meetings, when heart spoke freely to heart in low tender words. Small wonder he forgot all else in the thought of her. Even Pippo’s artless companionship became at times burdensome to him.

So she lured him on, saw the white flame of his adoration turn to red with the fuel of her giving. And softly day by day she threw closer meshes round his soul. Unsuspecting, it struggled not at all, made no attempt to escape.

Isabel smiled. The Devil, who had set the stage, I am very sure laughed. At Sangdieu Brigid prayed.