The Quest of Glory by Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations based on other books .txt) 📕

dim light, the two silent figures, the slow motion. He closed

his eyes and endeavoured to sleep.

 

His senses were slipping into a languid, bitter-sweet confusion, when a

stinging blast of air roused him. He sat up, shivering and coughing.

 

The window farthest from him had been opened, and a thin curl of mist,

icy cold, entered the coach. The man opposite slept and nodded, and the

lady by the open window held her head turned away, and seemed to be

gazing out at the darkness.

 

Luc’s courtesy would not permit him to ask her to close the window,

though to have it wide to the night in such weather seemed folly.

 

The cold crept up to him, and clung to him. Recollections of all that

cold had meant in his life came to him: the cold in Bohemia; the cold

outside Aix; even the delicate chill of evening in the garden off the

Rue Deauville.

 

And all these associations were with Carola Koklinska, and he recalled

that she had old him how she used to lie shivering under the trees when

she was a child—cold, cold, cold.

 

Wherever her soul might be, her body was cold now, stiff in the frosty

earth. He too, he shivered as he had not under the snows of Pürgitz.

Again he closed his eyes, yet soon opened them.

 

Now the window was shut.

 

He stared, for he had not heard the sound of closing. When he reflected,

he had not heard the sound of opening either, nor had the lady changed

her attitude—and it was not possible that she could have pulled the

thick strap, moved down or up the ponderous frame of wood, the heavy

sheet of glass, without some sound, and without disturbing the folds of

the cloak across her hands.

 

Luc admitted to himself, with a little quiver, that his sight was more

and more failing him. In these last few weeks he could not trust himself

about objects even so near as was this window, that could never have

been opened.

 

He wondered where the cold came from, for it was increasing till every

bone ached. Yet his fellow-travellers were quiet. Could it be his fancy

conjuring up the past, the snow, the chill—and Carola, Clémence that

was? His head sank sideways on his breast, and he fixed his blurred

vision on the silent figure of the woman in the corner. Since he could

not see her face, he might please himself by imagining it; since he was

free to picture her as he would, he might believe she had black hair in

long fine ringlets, dark eyes and hollowed cheeks, and a fair throat

softly shadowed.

 

The coach rattled on with cumbrous pace. The lantern flame flared and

dipped in the socket; the man in the frieze coat sank huddled together in

a deeper sleep; and the cold became more intense, more searching, till

Luc felt as if some creature of ice were embracing him.

 

Presently, and for the first time, the lady in the corner moved. She did

not turn her head from gazing at the darkness, but she drew her hand

from under her cloak (that Luc now perceived to be of purple velvet) and

laid it on the seat between them.

 

It was a bare hand, white, and thin, and long.

 

Luc stared down at this hand, leant forward to bridge the space between

them. On the second of the fingers was a diamond ring with sapphire

points. Luc had seen a child with such a ring in her shroud buried in

the convent graveyard. He drooped against the back of the seat; the hand

came nearer, and it seemed to him that his sight suddenly became as

perfect as it once had been, for he saw every line and curve and shadow,

every tint and crease in the delicate hand creeping closer to him across

the worn red velvet of the seat; saw the blue and white sparkle of the

stones in the lamplight, and the minute details of their carved silver

setting.

 

She still did not look round. Luc put out his own hand, and the long

fingers rested on his. The deep cold increased till he felt that every

drop of blood in his body was chilled.

 

The coach jolted, the lamp shook violently, and the flame sank out;

darkness joined the cold. The coach vanished from about Luc; he felt

himself being drawn by that icy hand through soft blackness. Cloudy

pictures of all he had lost oppressed him: he heard his father’s voice,

very far off; his mother’s last cruel dismissal, coming too from a great

distance. He thought he was under the earth, lying in a grave with

Carola Koklinska. His own hand was now so cold that he did not know

whether or no another was resting in it. A faint Eastern perfume,

luxurious and warm, pervaded the universal cold; a sense of comfort, of

delight, stayed the long ache of regret in Luc’s heart, as if herbs had

been placed on a wound.

 

He thought he was back in Bohemia, sleeping on the frozen ground, and

that presently the dawn would break like a frosty lily, and he would

look up to see a lady in a habit of Oriental gaudiness ride round a tall

silver fir, in the topmost boughs of which the sun would sparkle among

the snow crystals.

 

But it was another light that broke across the peaceful, grateful

darkness that surrounded Luc. He sat up shivering, to find himself in

the close, worn interior of a public coach, the door of which was being

held open by the guard, who carried a lantern that cast a strong yellow

glow.

 

The coach had sopped. Luc’s fellow-passenger was yawning and shaking

himself.

 

“Ah, Messieurs,” the guard was saying, “a thousand pardons—the light

has gone out!”

 

“Eh?” yawned the man in the frieze coat. “Well, I think we have both

been asleep, have we not, Monsieur?” He smiled courteously at Luc.

 

“It would seem so,” shuddered the Marquis. Beyond the stout figure of

the guard, clumsy with heavy capes, he could see the misty lights of an

inn, and a group of men standing in front of the yellow square of the

door.

 

“The lady?” he asked. “Has the lady got out here?”

 

The fellow shook his head.

 

“There was no passenger save you two from Aix, Monsieur. Some others

join us at the next stage.”

 

Luc glanced at his fellow-traveller, who was chafing his hands

vigorously.

 

“Did you not think that there was a lady in that corner?” he asked

faintly.

 

When he saw the look turned on him, he repented having spoken.

 

“You have been dreaming, Monsieur,” was the brusque answer. “We have

been alone in the coach since Aix.” Luc controlled himself.

 

“Forgive me,” he said simply, “My sight is not very good, and there were

so many shadows I thought I saw a lady in a dark mantle seated in that

corner.”

 

The little man laughed.

 

“Mon Dieu, no, Monsieur.” He spoke pleasantly, being affected, almost

unconsciously, by the sweetness and gentleness of the slight stooping

gentleman who was so terribly marked by the smallpox and seemed to

breathe with such an effort.

 

The guard entered to relight the lantern, and the two travellers

descended and stood in the strip of light outside the inn, where the

coachman, some peasants, and two starved-looking people, who had been

travelling outside, were drinking hot spiced wine with wolfish relish.

 

Luc felt the night wind ouch his face. He walked out of the radius of

light, away from the sound of the talk, and stood facing the dark high

road.

 

_Can she, then, come back—has she, then, remembered? Did she mean to

comfort me?_

 

He breathed strongly and drew himself erect.

 

_Why should I fear sorrow and loss? Who am I that I should hope to be

free of grief and regret? I have’ not offended the Being who put me

here, and I fear nothing._

 

He stood motionless, for the wind was rising higher, and passed him with

a sound like the sweep of a woman’s skirt. He thought to feel a ouch, a

breath, to hear a voice, a sigh.

 

But the wind passed, and a great stillness fell.

 

Luc returned to the coach.

 

“Will you not have a glass of wine, Monsieur?” asked the man in the

frieze coat. “It is a bitter night for spring.”

 

The Marquis declined pleasantly.

 

“I suppose we are near the dawn?” he added.

 

“I think it will be light before the next stage, Monsieur.”

 

They mounted the step, entered, and closed the door. A heavy smell of

oil hung in the air, and the lamp burnt raggedly. From without came the

clink of glasses and money, voices, and the stamp of feet.

 

Luc was roused from the exaltation of his inner thoughts by the

question—

 

“How far are you travelling, Monsieur?”

 

“To Paris.”

 

“Ah, a long way.”

 

“Yes, a long way.”

 

“A fine city, Paris,” said the other, pulling on his gloves.

 

“Fine, indeed, Monsieur.”

 

They took their seats, and the coach started with a noisy effort. The

elder traveller was soon asleep again, but Luc sat awake, alert,

watching the blurred misty glass turn a cold white as the dawn came

slowly.