Via Crucis | Page 7

protection of Sir Arnold, leaving
the manor to take care of itself.
At first Curboil had constantly professed admiration for Warde's mental
and physical gifts; but little by little, tactfully feeling his distance, he
had made the lady meet his real intention half way by confiding to him
all that she suffered, or fancied that she suffered-- which with some
women is the same thing--in being bound for life to a man who had
failed to give her what her ambition craved. Then, one day, the
key-word had been spoken. After that, they never ceased to hope that
Raymond Warde might come to an untimely end.
During these years Gilbert had grown from a boy to a man,
unsuspicious, worshipping his mother as a kind of superior being, but

loving his father with all that profound instinct of mutual understanding
which makes both love and hatred terrible within the closer degrees of
consanguinity. As time went by and the little Beatrix grew tall and
straight and pale, Gilbert loved her quite naturally, as she loved
him--two young people of one class, without other companions, and
very often brought together for days at a time in the isolated existence
of mediaeval castles. Perhaps Gilbert never realized just how much of
his affection for his mother was the result of her willingness to let him
fall in love with Beatrix. But the possibility of discussing the marriage
was another excuse for those long conversations with Sir Arnold,
which had now become a necessary part of Goda's life, and it made the
frequent visits and meetings in the hawking season seem quite natural
to the unsuspecting Sir Raymond. In hunting with Sir Arnold, he had
more than one narrow escape. Once, when almost at close quarters with
an old boar, he was stooping down to meet the tusker with a low thrust.
His wife and Sir Arnold were some twenty paces behind him, and all
three had become separated from the huntsmen. Seeing the position and
the solitude, the Lady Goda turned her meaning eyes to her companion.
An instant later Sir Arnold's boar-spear flew like a cloth- yard arrow,
straight at Sir Raymond's back. But in that very instant, too, as the boar
rushed upon him, Warde sprang to one side, and, almost dropping to
his knee, ran the wild beast through with his hunting sword. The spear
flew harmless over his head, unseen and unheard, and lost itself in the
dead leaves twenty yards beyond him. On another day, Raymond,
riding along, hawk on wrist, ten lengths before the others, as was his
wont, did not notice that they gradually fell behind, until he halted in a
narrow path of the forest, looked round, and found himself alone. He
turned his horse's head and rode back a few yards, when suddenly three
masked men, whom he took for robbers, sprang up in his path and fell
upon him with long knives. But they had misreckoned their distance by
a single yard, and their time by one second, and when they were near
enough to strike, his sword was already in his hand. The first man fell
dead; the second turned and fled, with a deep flesh wound in his
shoulder; the third followed without striking a blow; and Sir Raymond
rode on unhurt, meditating upon the uncertainty of the times. When he
rejoined his wife and friend, he found them dismounted and sitting side
by side on a fallen tree, talking low and earnestly, while the footmen

and falconers were gathered together in a little knot at some distance.
As they heard his voice, Goda started with a little cry, and Arnold's
dark face turned white; but by the time he was beside them, they were
calm again, and smiled, and they asked him whether he had lost his
way. Raymond said nothing of what had happened to him, fearing to
startle the delicate nerves of his lady; but late on the following night,
when Sir Arnold was alone in his bedchamber, a man ghastly white
from loss of blood lifted the heavy curtain and told his story in a low
voice.
CHAPTER II
Now Raymond and his son had gone over into Berkshire, to the
building of the great castle at Faringdon, as has been said; and for a
while Sir Arnold remained in his hold, and very often he rode over
alone to Stoke, and spent many hours with the Lady Goda, both in the
hall and in the small garden by the moat. The priest, and the steward,
and the men- at-arms, and the porter, were all used to see him there
often enough, when Sir Raymond was at home, and they thought no
evil because he came now to bear the lonely lady company; for the
manners of those