CHAPTER XXIX

THE ROOM IN THE TOWER

Who could refrain

That had a heart to love?

-SHAKESPEARE.

THE hall which Lady Philida and the woman entered was narrow and stone-paved. Its darkness was relieved only by a lantern with pierced holes that spread radiating gleams against one wall, and the flambeau that her guide carried. At the back, the hall turned off at an angle and up this led a flight of stone stairs. Her silent companion, still carrying her flambeau which left behind it trails of black smoke and tarry odour, ushered her to the landing above. Here was revealed a second flight of stairs. Philida followed her guide without protest or question. The silent woman's society was a relief to her after her recent companionship. As she went, she calculated the height to which they were rising, subconsciously. There was fighting blood in her veins, and though for the time her head swam uselessly, the 'determination to escape if possible underlay her thoughts.

At length they reached the threshold of an open door before which her guide paused as a hint for her to enter. She did so and the woman followed, locking the door behind her.

The click of the lock as it turned revealing to Philida that she was a prisoner, let in upon her a tempest of panic and of protest.

How dare you?" she cried. "Would you treat me as prisoner?"

"My orders, your ladyship," returned the other imperturbably.

Going over to the hearth, she proceeded to stir up the smouldering fire which was creeping and snapping uneasily among green boughs.

Philida battled back her sobs, and stood looking about her, seeking for an exit. She found herself in a large apartment hung with tapestries which were still beautiful, though frayed in places. They represented a hunting scene. A Flemish chest, rich in carving, but wormeaten, stood against one wall. Beside the high stone fireplace were two great chairs, one upholstered in bronzed leather, but all its glory faded. Upon the hearth lay a fur rug worn bare in spots. There was an Elizabethan carved bedstead, piled with stuffy-looking bedclothes almost to its heavy, wooden canopy. This completed the furnishing of the neglected room. The door by which they had entered was cut wantonly into the fine old tapestry. There was but one window set high in the wall.

To this Philida ran, and, standing upon tiptoe, contrived to open it. The damp blackness and a sense of the depth below sent her back from it with a little cry of disappointment and dismay. She turned, to discover her gaoler regarding her with an air of impersonal curiosity.

The woman had a mass of rebellious grey hair, a mouth curiously set, not hard, not firm, and hazel eyes beneath thick eyebrows. There was about her the appearance of one doing her duty, without enthusiasm, but with no hint of relenting.

"Oh," burst out Philida, “you are not going to help her to do this thing?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

"I must obey her ladyship," she answered immovably.

Philida was suffering from the shocks of the day and deadly weary. This reply crushed her. She flung herself face downwards upon the hearth-rug and sobbed. For many moments she lay there, a slender figure, her arms flung above her head in an attitude of abandon; her white-flowered dress crushed and disarranged as the firelight danced over her.

When again she looked up she found, to her surprise, that her companion had dragged the chest within the radius of the heat from the fire, and that her supper was spread upon it.

"Best eat, your ladyship," she remarked practically. Lady Philida leaned against one of the chairs, and shook her head.

"It won't do you any good to lose your strength nor your beauty," suggested the other.

The girl regarded her with arrested attention. Her guide's matter-of-fact way of putting things calmed her. Yes, she would need strength. With an effort at selfcommand she approached the chest. The viands were of the plainest. A joint of cold meat, and a loaf of coarse bread flanked by a flagon of wine completed the repast. With a deliberate effort Philida began her supper. She had not broken her fast since the morning. She found, to her surprise, that she was eating with a fair degree of appetite. Helped by the meal, the sharp, heady wine, and the glow of the fire of which she was beginning to be gratefully sensible, her mind began to act.

So far at least she seemed safe. Her grim guardian had settled herself to turn the heel of a grey yarn stocking, as deliberately as if no tearful eyes watched her wistfully from the other side of the hearth.

For some moments Philida regarded her, drooping where she sat.

The wind had risen. It whirled about the tower

room, snatched at the casements and shook them violently. The candles were caught by the draughts which sent their flames veering; the shadows in the corners of the dark room moved uneasily; the great blot of the bed's canopy went quivering over the ceiling; there was a fluttering of swallows in the chimney. The little creatures were disturbed by the smoke, and their wings dislodged an occasional chip of mortar or wreath of soot. From the wainscot came the squeak and scuttle of mice. The whole room was pervaded by the spirit of loneliness and fear.

Philida was seized with a hunger for the touch of something warm and human. She crept over and crouched against her guardian's knees. The woman felt the soft huddle of her form. The action was full of appeal. She counted off her stitches carefully. There was an unfamiliar tug at her heart, as she felt the trustful pressure of her charge's shoulders.

As the wind rose to a louder shriek, Philida gasped, and threw her arms about her companion.

"Don't leave me?" she besought, her eyes strained over her shoulder at the moving shadows.

"Not unless my lady orders."

"Always my lady's orders!" cried Philida.

“Have

you then no heart? Do you lend yourself to this wickedness?"

The woman moved in her seat and set her lips obstinately.

"I know nought of that," she said.

lady's affair."

"That's my

"A pretty affair!" exclaimed Philida, in a burst of indignation. "And I'll see to it she suffers for it."

The other continued the exasperating click of her needles, but there was the ghost of a grim smile now upon her face.

"I'm thinking she'll see to it that you suffer first, your ladyship. My mistress is not one to enter upon a road unless she herself knows the turnings better than another."

Upon this reply Philida lapsed into discouraged silence. Her fears grew upon her. To keep them in abeyance, she began to question her companion.

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If we are to be here all night, mayhap, it was best if I had a name for you."

"You may call me Martha," said the woman.

"Martha," said Philida, "I like it well. Prithee, Martha, shorten the hour with some story."

"I know no stories, your ladyship," the other returned gruffly.

"Or even a little gossip, Martha. Anything. This wind affrights me."

"I know no gossip."

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Prithee, then, Martha, tell me your own history." 'My history, your ladyship! what history have such as I save toil, toil, toil."

Philida placed a cheek against her companion's knee, her back turned to the terrifying shadows of the room. "Everybody has some history, Martha.

married?"

An angry exclamation answered her.

"Not I, thank God!"

"Did he die?" asked Philida, softly.

Are you

This questioning threaded her thoughts away from the terrors that threatened to overwhelm her.

The knitting fell from Martha's lap. She answered brusquely:

When a woman is not married at forty-five, all the world knows no man has come a-courting her."

"I know better, Martha," Philida answered. "You have but to smooth away that frown and you'd be