night progressed. Came next the country dances – invented upon a time by his grace of Buckingham’s grandmother to introduce to the court some of her country cousins. Hoydenish they were, but the sibilance of the silks and satins and the flaunt of laces robbed them of much of their rustic simplicity. Mistress Clerke, her color heightened, held her court up and down the gallery, until Mistress Stewart and my lady Chesterfield, in turn, jealous of their prestige, called their recalcitrant admirers to account. His grace of Dorset, somewhat red and breathless, could contain himself no longer. “By my faith!” he said, “Castlemaine and Hamilton had better look to their laurels. Nay, she has a wit as pretty as that of my lord of Rochester.”
“But cleaner,” put in Jermyn, dryly.
In the meanwhile Monsieur Mornay had received a packet.
“In God’s name, what have you done?” (it ran). “You juggle too lightly with the affairs of nations, Monsieur Mornay. ’Tis a serious offense for you, and means death, or the Bastile at the very least. Here is what you ask. I have no more favors to give. Leave London at once, for when the post from France arrives, I cannot help you. – C.”
Mornay looked at it curiously, with pursed lips and loose fingers, and then rather a bitter smile came over his features. “’Twas too strong a test of his fellowship,” he muttered; “too strong for his friendship even.”
He shoved the document among his laces and moved to the gallery, where the gentlemen were choosing their partners for the coranto. He sought the Duke at once. His grace was standing near Mistress Barbara’s chair, watching with amusement a discussion of the rival claims of the Earl of St. Albans and Captain Ferrers upon her clemency for the dance.
“Your grace,” said Mornay, “I claim your promise. I am for the coranto.”
“With la belle Barbara? My word, Mornay, you are incurable.”
“A disease, monsieur; I think fatal.” Mistress Barbara beamed upon the Duke. Ferrers made way; he did not see the figure at the heels of Dorset.
“Madame,” said his grace, with a noble flourish of the arm, “I present to you a gentleman of fine distinction in Germany and England, a gallant captain in the Marine of France – René Bras-de-Fer – Monsieur le Chevalier Mornay.”
During the prelude she had sat complaisantly, a queen in the center of her court. But as Mornay came forward she arose and drew herself to her splendid height, looking at the Frenchman coldly, her lips framed for the words she would have uttered. But Monsieur Mornay spoke first.
“Madame,” he said, quietly, his hand upon his heart, “I am come for the coranto.”
She looked at him in blank amazement, but for a moment no sound came from her lips.
“Monsieur,” she stammered at last in breathless anger – “monsieur – ”
Mornay affected not to hear her.
“The coranto, madame,” he said, amusedly; “madame has promised me the coranto.”
“’Tis an intrusion, monsieur,” she began, her breast heaving. Mornay had drawn from his laces the pardon of Nick Rawlings. Before she could finish he had opened the paper and handed it towards her.
“It is the pardon, madame.”
That was all he said. But the crimson seal of the crown, dangling from its cords, caught her eye, and, half bewildered, she glanced down over the writing.
“Clemency – thief – murderer – Nick Rawlings – pardon? – a pardon for me, monsieur?”
Monsieur Mornay showed his white teeth as he smiled.
“Madame forgets her promise of the coranto. Voilà! Here is the pardon. There is the musique. Will madame not dance?”
A silence had fallen upon those within earshot, and not a couple took the floor for the dance. His grace of Dorset looked serious. Sir Henry Heywood thrust himself into the circle. But the music tinkled bravely, and Monsieur Mornay still stood there, awaiting her reply.
The struggle lasted for some moments. She turned white and red by turns as she fought for her self-control and pressed her hand to her breast to still the tumult which threatened to burst from her lips.
Captain Ferrers made a step as though to come between them, but Monsieur Mornay did not notice him. Nor until then did Mistress Clerke break her silence.
“Stop, Captain Ferrers,” she coldly said. “I will dance with this – this Monsieur Mornay.” Her tone was frozen through and through with the bitterness of utter contempt.
And then, giving Mornay her fingers, she went with him to the middle of the gallery. While the company, too interested or amazed to follow in the dance, stood along the walls of the ballroom, Mistress Barbara Clerke and Monsieur Mornay ran through the mazes of the dance.
Mornay moved with an incomparable grace and skill. It was a dance from Paris, and every turn of the wrist, neck, or heel proclaimed him master. From his face one could only discover the signal joy he felt at being honored by so gracious and beautiful a companion. The countenance of Mistress Clerke betrayed a less fortunate disposition. In the bitterness of her defeat by this man whom she had promised herself publicly to demean, she maintained her outward composure with difficulty. The physical action of dancing gave her some relief, but as she faced him her eyes blazed with hatred and her fingers, fairly spurning a contact, chilled him with the rigidness of their antipathy.
Twice they made the round of the room, when Ferrers, who had mounted the steps into the loft, bade the musicians stop playing. A look of relief chased the scorn for a moment from Mistress Barbara’s face, and, as though half unconscious of Mornay’s presence, she said aloud, in a kind of gasp:
“Thank God, ’tis done!”
They stood opposite an open window that led to the garden. Mornay frowned at her.
“And the hour alone?” he asked. “Surely madame cannot so soon have forgotten?”
Her gray eyes had turned as dark as the open window looking into the night, and the lids which her scorn let down to hide her anger concealed but in part the smoldering light of her passion.
“It is preposterous, monsieur!” she said, chokingly. “I cannot! I will not!”
“And your promise, madame. Mistress Clerke will forget her promise?”
She looked about helplessly, as though seeking a way to escape. But Mornay was merciless.
“Perhaps, madame, you fear!” he said, ironically.
He had judged her aright. With a look that might have killed had Mornay been made of more tender stuff, she caught her gown upon her arm and swept past him out into the darkness of the terrace beyond.
The air was warm and fragrant, full of the first sweet freshness of the summer. The light of the moon sifted softly through the haze that had fallen over the gardens and trembled upon each dewy blade and leaf. It was so peaceful and quiet! – so far removed from rancor and hatred! – a night for fondness, gentleness, and all the soft confidences of a tenderness divine and all-excelling – a night for love!
This thought came to them both at the same moment – to Mistress Barbara with a sense of humiliation and anger, followed by the burst of passion she had struggled so long to control. She stopped in the middle of the garden-walk and turned on him:
“You!” she cried, immoderately. “You again! Has a lady no rights which a man, whatever he be, is bound to respect? Why do you pursue me? Listen to me, Monsieur Mornay. I hate you! – I hate you! – I hate you!” And then, overcome by the every excess of her emotion, she sank to the bench beside her. Monsieur Mornay stood at a distance and occupied himself with the laces at his sleeves.
To a Frenchman this was surely an ill-requiting of his delicate attentions.
“Madame,” he began, calmly, then paused.
“No, madame does not mean that.” He made no attempt to go nearer, but stood, his hand resting upon the hilt