When at last that breathing space came, Isoult was nearly choked with
the fatigue of her artistic escapades; but there was no time to lose.
As soon as she dared she got up in the dark, put her cloak over her
night-dress, and crept out into the gallery. The door creaked as she
opened it; she stood white and quailing, while her heart beat like a
hammer. But nothing stirred. She went first to Maulfry's door and
listened. She heard her breathing. All fast there. Then like a hare
she fled on to the door she knew so well. There was a light under it:
she heard a rustle as of paper or parchment. Whoever was there was
turning the leaves of a book. In the silence which seemed to press
upon her ears and throb in them, she debated with herself what she
should do. She knew that there was indeed no question about it. If he
was ill, everything--all her humility and all his tacit authority--
must give way. There was but one place for a wife. Maulfry did not
know she was his wife. She listened again. Inside the room she now
heard some one shift in bed, and--surely that was a low groan. Oh,
Lord! Oh, Love! She turned the handle; she stood in the doorway; she
saw Galors sitting up in bed with a book on his knees, a lamp by his
side. His sick face, bandaged and swathed, glowered at her, with great
hollow eyes and a sour mouth dropped at one corner.
She stood unable to move or cry.
"All is well, dear friend," said Galors; "I did but shift and let a
little curse. Go to bed, Maulfry."
Isoult had the wit to withdraw. What little she had left after that
pointed a shaking finger at one thing only--flight. She had been
unutterably betrayed. Her conception of the universe reeled over and
was lost in fire. There was no time to think of it, none to be afraid;
she did what there was to do swiftly, with a clearer head than she had
believed herself capable of. She slipt back to her room without doubt
or terror, and put on the clothes in which she had come from the
convent, a grey gown with a leather girdle, woollen stockings, thick
shoes--over all a long red hooded cloak. This done she stood a moment
thinking. No, she dare not try the creaking door again; the window
must serve her turn. She opened it and looked out. Through the fretty
tracery of the firs she could see a frosty sky, blue-grey fining to
green, green to yellow where the moon swam, hard and bright. There was
not a breath of air.
She climbed at once on to the window-ledge, and stood, holding to the
jamb, looking down at the black below.