LITMIR.BIZ

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Master Dirk frowned.

      “So are many men.”

      Balthasar surveyed the tilting wine through half-closed eyes.

      “It is about my wife, Master, that I am here now.”

      Dirk Renswoude leant forward in his chair.

      “I know of your wife.”

      “Tell me of her,” said Balthasar of Courtrai. “I have come here for that.”

      Dirk slightly smiled.

      “Should I know more than you?”

      The Margrave’s son flushed.

      “What you do know? — tell me.”

      Dirk’s smile deepened.

      “She was one Ursula, daughter of the Lord of Rooselaare, she was sent to the convent of the White Sisters in this town.”

      “So you know it all,” said Balthasar. “Well, what else?”

      “What else? I must tell you a familiar tale.”

      “Certes, more so to you than to me.”

      “Then, since you wish it, here is your story, sir.”

      Dirk spoke in an indifferent voice well suited to the peace of the chamber; he looked at neither of his listeners, but always out of the window.

      “She was educated for a nun and, I think, desired to become one of the Order of the White Sisters. But when she was fifteen her brother died and she became her father’s heiress. So many entered the lists for her hand — they contracted her to you.”

      Balthasar pulled at the orange tassels on his sleeve.

      “Without my wish or consent,” he said.

      The young man took no heed.

      “They sent a guard to bring her back to Rooselaare, but because they were fearful of the danger of journey, and that she might be captured by one of the pretenders to her fortunes, 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

       Table of Contents

      “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

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