The Jester. LM

the soft winds, all were to him but symbols of his happiness, portraying for him his lady’s praises. Looking back on his first meeting with her he still felt a flush of shame that he had momentarily doubted her truth, had spoken words that held a note of irony. For that he struck his breast, cried “Mea culpa,” saw himself the fool his garb set forth. Truth incarnate in woman, so he saw her now, loftily enshrined beside his mother, the shrine I think very near to that of the Mother of God. Kneeling afar at Mass he saw her bend her head in adoration, rejoiced to think they were at one in this great Act of Worship. The whiteness of his love we may well believe lifted him nearer God.

      Having, then, some hint of his mood you will know that Peregrine sitting by the sundial found the morning very fair. Having mused, and finding it hard to say by what precise steps he had reached his present goal, he turned from musing, content merely that here he was. Light of heart he looked across the park, saw the shadows lying still and blue beneath the trees, saw the purple outline of the moorland, heard a lark pouring forth exuberant song from the cloudless sky.

      At the further end of the grass sward, on a stone bench, Brigid was sitting with Mary Chester. Embroidery, as their custom was, occupied their fingers, or it would be safer to say that Mary’s were occupied thereby. Brigid for the most part held her needle idly, her eyes more often roving to the motionless figure by the sundial than bent upon her work.

      “Methinks,” she said suddenly, breaking a long silence, “that the Lady Isabel favours our present Jester.” Head on one side she surveyed the distant figure meditatively, unashamedly.

      “The Lady Isabel is gracious to all,” said Mary sedately, her eyes upon her embroidery.

      “Hmm.” Brigid’s eyes twinkled. Elbow on knee, chin in cupped hand, she cast a side-long look at Mary. “And will you be recording that small speech at confession.”

      Mary flushed. “I do not understand,” she responded.

      “No?” quizzed Brigid. “Oh, Mary, methought you were a truthful woman. And here within the space of one minute you have twice—Oh, fie upon you!”

      Mary, her lips folded upon each other, stitched at her embroidery.

      “I wonder,” mused Brigid, unheeding her companion’s silence, “just what our dear mistress intends.”

      Still Mary was silent.

      “You see,” pursued Brigid, “you know her, and I know her, and methinks her present mood is dangerous for the peace of mind of our friend yonder. Just how far will she lead him? Just how far will she let him feel her power? Ah me, had I her looks instead of the half-hearted dower Dame Nature has bestowed on me, methinks willy nilly the maid would enter the field with the mistress, and should the maid gain the day I’ll warrant the awakening would be less rude to the sleeping fool. Mary, a word in your ear. Melikes that young man.”

      Mary raised her eyes from her embroidery. “And that,” she remarked quietly, “is the truest word you’ve spoken.”

      “A true word, verily; but I crave leave to omit the superlative. Let me show the truth of the other words, emphasise it since you hesitate to grant it. Therefore firstly, note our knowledge of the Lady Isabel; secondly, her mood dangerous to the peace of mind of our friend yonder; thirdly, the awakening less rude were it left to me. And firstly, secondly, and thirdly holds, I’ll warrant, every whit as much truth as lastly. Hence I say again, I omit the superlative, by your leave.”

      For a moment Mary was still silent. Then she spoke, her voice grave. “You are barely charitable, Brigid; and, methinks, hardly loyal.”

      Brigid shrugged her shoulders. “As for loyalty, I do not speak in this fashion save to you. And for charity—bah! Were I to divest my speech of all criticism methinks ’twould be as savourless as food without salt and spices, mere pap for babes.”

      Mary sighed.

      “You sigh, and rightly. Mary, it angers me. Man though he is, his rôle is but that of fool—fool by birth, heritage, and calling. She is as guarded from him as ever was Brunhilde from Siegfried by the ring of fire. He knows it, and she knows it. Yet by the syren song of her she lures him ever nearer. And, if her song continues, one day in madness he will try to pass the barrier of flame. Her song and madness alone will urge him to the attempt. Then the flame will burn him; and I know, yes, I know, she will mock at his wounds.” Low and fierce Brigid spoke the last words.

      “You let imagination run away with you. You feel too deeply.” Mary’s words were calm.

      Brigid looked straight before her. “Sooner feel too deeply than have a heart of stone. Mary, I’d sooner be dumb than lure men by the syren’s song. I’d sooner be featureless with leprosy than drive men mad by the fairness of my face. She is heartless as a stone image, remorseless as a Medusa, a very vampire to—.” Brigid broke off; a sidelong glance had shown her Mary’s face. “You are shocked? Small wonder. Truth is a very naked lady, and if we drag her from the bottom of her well we should at least garb her in becoming fashion. We will lower her again to the darkness of her well, and herewith change the topic of our discourse. Mark you, how blue the sky is, and look at the white butterfly resting on my anemones yonder. See the quivering of its wings, the darling! ’Tis the first I have seen this year.” Gaiety in every note of the words you could not have imagined the passionate utterance of a moment agone.

      Mary was silent, tears not far from her eyes.

      “What ails you?” asked Brigid solicitously.

      Mary smiled wanly. “I liked not the sight of truth,” she replied.

      “Nor I,” averred Brigid. “ ’Twas ill to drag her from her resting-place. Since she cannot be killed she is best hidden. Let us cry Deo gratias that there is a well wherein to hide her. And you and I will dance and smile at the edge thereof; since, verily, save for that or moping, which is ill, we can do nothing.”

      “Nothing,” echoed Mary. “Save pray,” she added a moment later, and below her breath.

      Brigid caught the words, and her eyes gave assent thereto, if not her lips.

CHAPTER IV

       A WOMAN’S WILL

       Table of Contents

      HERE you will have seen two views of the same woman, one from the mountain summit, rarified, enfolded almost in the very air of Paradise; the other at the mountain base, to say the least of the earth earthy. Justice demands that I show you some third view of her, and that as dispassionate as may be. From the three you may chose your own view, see it perhaps from a via media.

      And here my task is no easy one, since to deal with the many intricacies of the human mind, and above all the mind of a woman, needs first a clear perception, secondly a careful adjustment of values, and lastly a nicety of phrase in setting them forth, that those to whom I would show them may see the truth as I believe it, whatever conclusions they may draw therefrom. Partially to achieve this object is all I can hope for; if I give you a glimpse of the truth it must suffice. The rest I must leave to you, trusting to your imagination, your power to mould from the material I will give you. At least I will endeavour that the material be not too hard cast; plastic as may be you shall have it.

      And first, by your leave, I would say this: I write, it is true, of days now some six hundred years old, yet human nature has been human nature from the time of our first parents. It is a melody composed at the beginning of the ages; it is repeated throughout the centuries, the air ever the same, underlying the many variations woven around it.

      And now to Isabel. Of her outward seeming I have shown you, in so far as I am able with mere pen to portray what should verily be limned by painter’s art. Of herself, the inward woman, there is this to say. She desired power. There, in three words, you will perceive the keynote. That given we will on to the further composition. It is by no means certain how far she knew that she desired it. We desire air that we may live and breathe, yet we are not