they married her fast and securely, by proxy, to you. At this the maid, who wished most heartily, I take it, to become a nun, fell ill of grief, and in her despair she confided her misery to the Abbess.”
Balthasar’s eyes flickered and hardened behind their fair lashes.
“I tell you a tale,” said Dirk, “that I believe you know, but since you have come to hear me speak on this matter, I relate what has come to me — of it. This Ursula was heiress to great wealth, and in her love to the Sisters, and her dislike to this marriage, she promised them all her worldly goods, when she should come into possession of them, if they would connive at saving her from her father and her husband. So the nuns, tempted by greed, spread the report that she had died in her illness, and, being clever women, they blinded all. There was a false funeral, and Ursula was kept secret in the convent among the novices. All this matter was put into writing and attested by the nuns, that there might be no doubt of the truth of it when the maid came into her heritage. And the news went to her home that she was dead.”
“And I was glad of it,” said Balthasar. “For then I loved another woman and was in no need for money.”
“Peace, shameless,” said Theirry, but Dirk Renswoude laughed softly.
“She took the final, the irrevocable vows, and lived for three years among the nuns. And the life became bitter and utterly unendurable to her, and she dared not make herself known to her father because of the deeds the nuns held, promising them her lands. So, as the life became more and more horrible to her, she wrote, in her extremity, and found means to send, a letter to her husband.”
“I have it here.” Balthasar touched his breast. “She said she had sworn herself to me before she had vowed herself to God — told me of her deceit,” he laughed, “and asked me to come and rescue her.”
Dirk crossed his hands, that were long and beautiful, upon the table.
“You did not come and you did not answer.”
The Margrave’s son glanced at Theirry, as he had a habit of doing, as if he reluctantly desired his assistance or encouragement; but again he obtained nothing and answered for himself, after the slightest pause.
“No, I did not come. Her father had taken another wife and had a son to inherit. And I,” he lowered his eyes moodily, “I was thinking of another woman. She had lied, my wife, to God, I think. Well, let her take her punishment, I said.”
“She did not wait beyond some months for your answer,” said Master Dirk. “Master Lukas, born of Ghent, was employed in the chapel of the convent, and she, who had to wait on him, told him her story. And when he had finished the chapel she fled with him here — to this house. And again she wrote to her husband, speaking of the old man who had befriended her and telling him of her abode. And again he did not answer. That was five years ago.”
“And the nuns made no search for her?” asked Theirry.
“They knew now that the girl was no heiress, and they were afraid that the tale might get blown abroad. Then there was war.”
“Ay, had it not been for that I might have come,” said Balthasar. “But I was much occupied with fighting.”
“The convent was burnt and the sisters fled,” continued Dirk. “And the maid lived here, learning many crafts from Master Lukas. He had no apprentices but us.”
Balthasar leant back in his chair.
“That much I learnt. And that the old man, dying, left his place to you, and — what more of this Ursula?”
The young man gave him a slow, full glance.
“Strangely late you inquire after her, Balthasar of Courtrai.”
The Knight turned his head away, half sullenly.
“A man must know how he is encumbered. No one save I is aware of her existence . . . yet she is my wife.”
Dusk, hot and golden, had fallen on the chamber. The half-gilded devil gleamed dully; above his violet vestment Theirry’s handsome face showed with a half smile on the curved lips; the Knight was a little ill at ease, a little sullen, but glowingly massive, gorgeous and finely coloured.
The young sculptor rested his smooth pale face on his palm; cloudy eyes and cloudy hair were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the line of the resolute chin was clear cut.
“She died four years ago,” he said. “And her grave is in the garden . . . where those white daisies grow.”
Chapter 2
The Students
“Dead,” repeated Balthasar; he pushed back his chair and then laughed. “Why — so is my difficulty solved — I am free of that, Theirry.”
His companion frowned.
“Do you take it so? I think it is pitiful — the fool was so young.” He turned to Dirk. “Of what did she die?”
The sculptor sighed, as if weary of the subject.
“I know not. She was happy here, yet she died.”
Balthasar rose.
“Why did you bury her within the house?” he asked half uneasily.
“It was in time of war,” answered Dirk. “We did what we could — and she, I think, had wished it.”
The young Knight leant a little way from the open window and looked at the daisies; they gleamed hard and white through the deepening twilight, and he could imagine that they were growing from the heart, from the eyes and lips of the wife whom he had never seen.
He wished her grave was not there; he wished she had not appealed to him; he was angry with her that she had died and shamed him; yet this same death was a vast relief to him. Dirk got softly to his feet and laid his hand on Balthasar’s fantastic sleeve.
“We buried her deep enough,” he said. “She does not rise.”
The Knight turned with a little start and crossed himself.
“God grant that she sleep in peace,” he cried.
“Amen,” said Theirry gravely.
Dirk took a lantern from the wall and lit it from the coals still smouldering on the hearth.
“Now you know all I know of this matter,” he remarked. “I thought that some day you might come. I have kept for you her ring — your ring —”
Balthasar interrupted.
“I want none of it,” he said hastily.
Dirk lifted the lantern; its fluttering flame flushed the twilight with gold.
“Will you please to sleep here to-night?” he asked. The Knight, with his back to the window, assented, in defiance of a secret dislike to the place.
“Follow me,” commanded Dirk, then to the other, “I shall be back anon.”
“Good rest,” nodded Balthasar. “To-morrow we will get horses in the town and start for Cologne.”
“Good even,” said Theirry.
The Knight went after his host through the silent rooms, up a twisting staircase into a low chamber looking on to the quadrangle.
It contained a wooden bedstead covered with a scarlet quilt, a table, and some richly carved chairs; Dirk lit the candles standing on the table, bade his guest a curt good-night and returned to the workroom.
He opened the door of this softly and looked in before he entered.
By the window stood Theirry striving to catch the last light on the pages of a little book he held.
His