THE WATCHER IN THE NIGHT
I
Lenora, thinking that Mevrouw van Rycke was still astir, and pining for
motherly comfort and companionship, had crept softly down the stairs
candle in hand, when all of a sudden she paused in the vast hall.
Everything was so still and so weird that any noise, even that of a
mouse skimming over a carpet, would have made itself felt in the
absolute silence which lay over the house, and Lenora's ear had most
certainly heard--or rather felt, a noise--the sound of people moving and
speaking somewhere, not very far from where she stood ... listening ...
every sense on the alert.
With a sudden instinct, half of fear and half of caution, she blew out
the candle and then groped her way, with hands outstretched, hardly
daring to breathe. The tiny, flickering light which came from an iron
lamp fixed to a bracket at the foot of the stairs made the hall seem yet
more vast and strange; but one small, elvish ray caught the polished
brass handle of the dining-room door, and this glimmer of metal seemed
to attract Lenora toward it. After awhile her eyes became a little more
accustomed to the gloom, she tip-toed up to that door-handle which so
attracted her, and placing both her hands upon it, she crouched
there--beside the door--listening.
In effect there were people moving and talking not far from where she
crouched--no doubt that they were in the small withdrawing-room beyond,
and that the door of communication between the two rooms was open.
Lenora--motionless, palpitating, her heart beating so that it nearly
choked her, felt that all her faculties must now be merged into those of
hearing, and, if possible, seeing what was going on in this house, and
at this hour of the night when the High-Bailiff was from home.
Whether any thought of conspiracy or of State secrets had at this time
entered her head it were impossible to say, whether she thought of
Ramon's murderer or of her oath to her father just then, who can tell?
Certainly not the girl herself--she only listened--listened with all her
might, and anon she heard the scraping of a chair against the tiled
floor, then the iron rings of a curtain sliding along the rod, finally
the whistling sound of a gust of wind rushing through an open window.
This moment she chose as her opportunity. She turned the handle of the
door very gently, and quite noiselessly it responded to her touch. Then
she pushed the door wide open and waited--listening.
The door into the withdrawing-room was wide open just as she had
conjectured, the wind was blowing the feeble light about which flickered
in that room, and there were men in there who moved stealthily and spoke
in whispers. Lenora crept forward--furtive as a mouse. The darkness in
the dining-hall was impenetrable, and she in her house-dress of dark
woollen stuff made no noise as she glided along, keeping well within the
gloom, her hands stretched out before her to feel the objects that might
be in her way.
At last she came within range of the open door and had a view of the
little room beyond. She saw the table in the centre, the men sitting
around it, and Clemence van Rycke in a high-back chair at its further
end. Just now they all had their faces turned toward the window, where
in the open casement the head and shoulders of a man were dimly visible
to Lenora for one instant and then disappeared.
After that she heard the men talking together and heard what they said:
she saw that one man appeared to be the recipient of great marks of
respect, and that the others called him "Your Highness." She was now
listening as if her very life depended on what she heard--crouching in
the angle of the dining-room as closely as her unwieldy farthingale
would allow. She heard the man whom the others called "Your Highness,"
and who could be none other than the Prince of Orange, explain to the
others a plan for massing together two thousand men in connection with a
forthcoming visit of the Duke of Alva to Ghent, she heard the word
"Leatherface" and a great deal about a packet of papers. She heard the
Prince speak about a meeting to-morrow in the house of the
Procurator-General, and finally she saw Laurence van Rycke take a packet
of papers from the Prince's hand and lock it up in the bureau that stood
close to the window.
Indeed she could not for a moment be in doubt as to the meaning of what
she saw and heard.
Here was a living proof of that treachery, that underhand conspiracy of
which her father had so often spoken to her of late! Here were these
Netherlanders, living under the beneficent and just laws of their
Sovereign Lord and Master King Philip of Spain--the man who in every
born Spaniard's eyes was greater, nobler, more just and more merciful
than any other monarch alive, who next to His Holiness himself was
surely anointed by God Himself and placed upon the mightiest throne on
earth so that he might administer God's will upon all his subjects--and
here were these traitors plotting and planning against the Government of
that high and noble monarch, plotting against his representative, the
Lieutenant-Governor whom he had himself put in authority over them.
To a girl born and bred in the atmosphere of quasi-worship which
surrounded Philip's throne, the revolt of these Netherlanders was the
most heinous outrage any people could commit. She understood now the
hatred and loathing which her father had for them--she hated them too,
since one of these vile conspirators had foully murdered her cousin
Ramon in the dark.
"Leatherface!"--the man in the room below whom the others called "Your
Highness" spoke of Leatherface as his friend!
A Prince consorting with a hired assassin! and Lenora felt that her
whole soul was filled with loathing for all these people. Was not the
man who had killed Ramon--foully, surreptitiously and in the dark--was
he not even now just outside this very house--the house which was to be
her home for life--waiting mayhap for some other unsuspecting Spanish
officer whom he could murder in the same cowardly and treacherous
way?--and were not all these people in that room yonder, execrable
assassins too?--had she not heard them speaking of armed
conspirators?--and could she not see even now in her mind's eye the
unsuspecting Duke of Alva falling into their abominable trap?
But horror-struck as she was, she never stirred. Truth to tell, a
sudden fear held her now--the fear that she might be detected ere she
had done her best to save the Duke from this infamous plot. What she
would do presently, she did not know as yet--for the moment all that she
needed was safety from discovery and the privacy of her own room where
she could pray and think.
After Laurence had locked the papers in the bureau it was obvious that
the meeting was at an end. She had only just time to flit like a dark
ghost through the dining-hall and to reach the stairs, before she heard
unmistakable signs that the Prince and his friends were taking leave of
their host and hostess. Gathering her wide gown together in her hands,
she crept up the stairs as fast as she could. Fortunately she was well
out of the range of the small light at the foot of the stairs, before
the five men and Clemence van Rycke came out into the hall. She heard
their few words of farewell and heard the Prince arranging for the
meeting the next evening at the house of Messire Deynoot.
After that she felt that further delay would inevitably spell detection.
Even now someone must have opened the front door, for a gust of wind and
heavy rain driving into the house told the listener quite clearly that
the Prince and his friends were leaving the house: anon Clemence and
Laurence would be going up to their own apartments.
As swiftly, as furtively as a mouse, Lenora made her way up the stairs:
and now there she sat once more in the vast bedchamber, quivering with
excitement and with horror, listening for footsteps outside her door.
She heard Clemence van Rycke's shuffling footsteps passing down the
corridor, and Laurence's more firm ones following closely in their wake:
a few whispered words were spoken by mother and son, then doors were
closed and all was still once more.
II
The fire had burnt low, only the last dying embers of the charred pine
logs threw a wide glowing band across the centre of the room. Lenora
sitting by the fire had scarcely moved for a quarter of an hour or even
more. Anon she heard the opening and shutting of the front door.
It was the High-Bailiff returning home--not knowing, of a truth, that
his house had just been used as a meeting-place for conspirators. The
hall-porter slept between two doors in the outer lobby. Lenora heard
him scrambling out of bed, and the High-Bailiff's voice bidding him
close everything up for the night. Then came the pushing home of bars
and bolts and the rattle of chains, and finally the sound of the
High-Bailiff's heavy footsteps across the hall and up the stairs.
After that silence once more.
Lenora, however, still sat on for awhile staring into the glow. Vaguely
she wondered if Mark would be staying out all night, or whether he had
been home all along, knowing perhaps, and perhaps not caring about, what
was going on in his father's house; keeping aloof from it all: or like
Laurence, up to his neck in all this treachery and abominable rebellion!
Another quarter-of-an-hour went by: the clock of St. Bavon had chimed
the half after eleven, and now the quarter before midnight. Lenora felt
that at last she might slip downstairs with safety.
Quickly now she took off her stuff gown and heavy farthingale which had
so impeded her movements awhile ago, and groped in the press for a
clinging robe which would envelop her closely and glide noiselessly upon
the tiled floors.
There is absolutely no doubt that all through this time Lenora acted
almost unconsciously. She never for one moment paused to think: she was
impelled by a force which she herself could not have defined--a force
which can best be described as a blind instinct. Obedience! She had
been born and bred in obedience and a sense of sacred duty to her King
as Sovereign Lord, to her faith and to her father.
In the convent at Segovia she had learned the lesson of obedience so
absolutely that it never entered her mind to question the decrees of
those three all-potent arbiters of her destiny. And when--as now--the
hour came when the most sacred oath she had ever spoken had to be
fulfilled, she would have thought it a deadly sin to search her own
heart, to study her feelings, to argue with herself about it. She would
as soon have thought of arguing with God.
On Ramon's death-bed she had sworn to her father that she would act and
work for her country and for her King in the way that her father would
direct.
The time had come, and she did what she believed to be her duty without
question and without false shame.
She knew that the knowledge which she already possessed was of paramount
importance to the Government: the Prince of Orange was in Ghent--who but
he would be called "your Highness"?--and moving about among his friends
surreptitiously and at dead of night? Who but he would speak of the
mysterious Leatherface as being on the watch for him? The Prince of
Orange was in Ghent and was conspiring against the State. There had
been talk of the Duke of Alva's visit to Ghent and of two thousand men
being secretly armed. What other purpose save that of murder and
bloodshed could be served by such secret plottings and the levying of
troops in this illegal manner? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent and
would on the morrow continue his underhand and treasonable machinations
in the house of Messire Deynoot, Procurator-General of Ghent.
That was the extent of Lenora's knowledge, and what could she do with
such a secret in her possession--she, a helpless girl, a stranger in the
midst of all these enemies of her people and of her race? Could she,
having gleaned so much information, quietly go to bed and sleep and let
events shape their course?--and detach herself, as it were, from the
destinies of her own country which her father had in a measure entrusted
to her stewardship? Could she above all be false to her oath at the
very moment when God gave her an opportunity of fulfilling it and of
working for her country and her King in a manner which was given to very
few women to do? Indeed she did not pause to think. Any thought save
that of obedience would be treason to the King and sinful before God.
The hour for thought would come later, and with it mayhap regret. Then
so be it. Whatever suffering she would have to endure in the future, in
her sentiment and in her feelings, she was ready to accept
unquestioningly, just as she was prepared to fulfil her duty
unquestioningly now. She knew a good deal, but surely not enough. She
had seen Laurence van Rycke lock up a packet of papers in the bureau,
and she had in her possession tied with a ribbon around her neck, the
precious pass-key which her father had given her on the very morning
when he told her how Ramon had come by his death--the
curiously-fashioned piece of steel made by the metal-worker of
Toledo--who had been put out of the way, because his skill had made him
dangerous--and which would turn any lock or open any secret drawer.
She had no light now and did not know how to use the tinder, but in the
wall of the corridor outside her door there was a little niche wherein
stood a statue of the Virgin, and in front of the statute a tiny light
was kept burning day and night: this would do in lieu of a candle. She
would take it, she thought, and carry it into the withdrawing-room with
her: it would help to guide her to the bureau where the papers were.
Yes! she was quite prepared for what she had to do, and there was no
reason to wait any longer. And yet for some unaccountable reason she
suddenly felt strangely inert: there were still a few dying embers in
the grate, and she could see quite distinctly the high-backed chair in
which she had sat last night, and the low one wherein Mark had half sat,
half kneeled close beside her: the memory of that brief interview which
she had had with him came upon her with a rush. It had been the only
interview between them since the blessing of the Church had made them
man and wife. It had ended disastrously it is true. Her words: "I hate
you!" had been cruel and untrue, and overwhelming regret suddenly held
her in its grip once again--as it had done all the day.
Closing her eyes for a moment--for they felt hot and heavy--she could
almost believe that Mark was still there--his merry grey eyes looking
deeply earnest, trying to read her innermost thoughts. His
personality--so strange, so baffling even--seemed still to linger in
this dimly-lighted room, and she almost could hear his voice--rugged,
yet at times so sweet and tender--echoing softly along the rafters.
And all of a sudden she realised the full horror of what she was
doing--of what she must do now or else become false and perjured--a
traitor to her race and to her King. No longer was she a blind and
unconscious tool of Fate--she was she herself--a woman who lived and
thought and suffered: and before her at this moment there was nothing
but an interminable vista of sorrow and suffering and regret.
Whether duty ruled her or sentiment, she--the innocent handmaid of
Fate--could reap nothing but remorse in the future; her heart, her very
youth, must inevitably be crushed between those two potent factors which
were struggling even now for mastery over her soul.
Indeed was there ever a woman--a mere girl--confronted with so
appalling, so intricate a puzzle? The lives of men were in her
hands--the Prince of Orange, the High-Bailiff, Mark, Laurence, Clemence
on the one side, on the other the Duke of Alva, her own father, her
kindred, all those whom she had clung to and loved throughout her life.
And knowing that she never could solve such an awful problem by herself
Lenora fell on her knees and prayed: she prayed with all the fervour,
but also with all the simplicity of primitive faith--the faith that is
willing and eager to leave everything in God's hands, to trust to
guidance and help from above when life has become a hopeless and
inextricable tangle--the faith which hath for its principle loyalty and
obedience and which accepts suffering in its cause, and glories in it
like in a martyr's crown.
III
After a few minutes Lenora felt more calm. Her deep and fervent
religious sentiment had risen triumphant over every doubt. While she
prayed so earnestly, so unquestioningly, it had been made clear to her
that the issue of the mighty problem which was putting her very soul on
the rack must remain in mightier hands than hers. She could not be the
arbiter of men's lives and of the destinies of the State; all that she
could do was to obey her father and fulfil her oath; beyond that, God
must decide; He had shown her the way how to obtain the knowledge which
she now possessed, and since her father was now back in Brussels, she
must find a means of placing that knowledge in his hands. Her father of
a surety was kind and just and God would Himself punish whom He willed.
With this calmer state of mind her resolution became more firm. She
felt the pass-key safely in her bosom, then stealthily she slipped out
of her room: the tiny light was flickering dimly at the foot of the
Virgin's statue; Lenora lifted it carefully and with it in her hand
prepared to go downstairs.
Scarce a sound broke the silence of the night: only the patter of the
rain against the leaded panes of the windows and an occasional gust of
wind that came roaring down the huge chimneys and shook the frames of
windows and doors. Before descending the stairs Lenora paused once more
to listen. Down the corridor she could hear Clemence van Rycke in her
bedchamber still moving about, and Laurence's footstep on the tiled
floor of his room.
And then the girl--shading the tiny light with her hand--began to
descend.
She paused for a moment upon the landing and peeped into the vast hall
below. It was fortunate that she had the tiny light, as the small lamp
at the foot of the stairs had since been extinguished; but the little
wick she held only threw out a faint glimmer a yard or two in front of
her, and beyond this small circle there was nothing but impenetrable
darkness.
The house was very still, and Lenora was absolutely without fear. From
the church towers of the city, both near and far, there came the sound
of bells striking the midnight hour. She waited till the last echo of
the chimes had died away, then she continued her way down.
IV
Lenora now entered the dining-hall and carefully closed the door behind
her. Light in hand she stood for a moment in the very angle of the room
from whence she had watched the plotters an hour ago. Nothing had been
deranged.
Then she went into the withdrawing-room, and placed the light upon the
centre table. She looked around her mutely challenging the dumb
objects--the chairs that stood about in disorder, the curtains which
were not closely drawn, the bureau that was in the corner--to tell her
all that she had failed to hear. In this spot a vile conspiracy had
been hatched against the Duke of Alva--two thousand men were implicated
in it--but in what way it threatened the Duke's life she did not
know--nor yet who were all these men who had sat around this table and
hatched treason against the King and State.
The tiny wick only shed a very feeble glimmer of light on the top of the
table: it made the shadows on the ceiling dance a weird rigadoon and
grow to fantastic proportions. But Lenora's eyes were growing
well-accustomed to the gloom. Quickly now she drew the pass-key from
between the folds of her kerchief and went up to the bureau. The ribbon
round her neck was in the way so she took it off; with trembling,
unerring fingers she groped for the lock and having found it she
inserted the pass-key into it. After a little adjustment, a little
tugging and pulling, she found that the lock yielded quite smoothly to
the pressure. The flap came down and displayed the interior of the
bureau, consisting of a number of wide pigeon-holes, in each of which
there was a small iron box such as the rich matrons of Flanders used for
putting away their pearls and other pieces of jewellery. On the top of
one of these boxes there was a packet of papers, tied round with a piece
of orange-coloured ribbon. Without a moment's hesitation Lenora took
it. She unfolded one of the papers and laid it out flat upon the table,
smoothing it out with her hand. She drew the light a little nearer and
examined the writing carefully: it was just a list of names--fifty in
all--with places of abode all set out in a double column, and at the
bottom was written in a bold hand:
"All the above to Afsemble without any delay in the Barn which is
fituated in the North-Weft angle of the Cemetery at the back of the
Chapel of St. Jan ten Dullen."
Having satisfied herself that the other papers in the packet also
contained lists of names and brief orders as to place of assembly, she
tied them all up together again with the orange-coloured ribbon. Then
she closed the bureau, turned the pass-key in the lock and slipped it,
together with the packet, into the bosom of her gown.
Then she turned to go.
V
Light in hand she went tip-toeing across the dining-room; but close to
the threshold she paused. She had distinctly heard a furtive footstep
in the hall. At once she extinguished the light. Then she waited. Her
thoughts had flown to Laurence van Rycke. Perhaps he felt anxious about
the papers, and was coming down in order to transfer them to some other
place of safety. The supposition was terrifying. Lenora felt as if an
icy hand had suddenly gripped her heart and was squeezing her very life
out of it. In this deathlike agony a few seconds went by--indeed they
seemed to the unfortunate girl like an eternity of torment. She had
slipped close to the wall right against the door, so that the moment it
was opened from the outside, and someone entered the room, she could
contrive to slip out. All might yet be well, if whoever entered did not
happen to carry a light.
Then suddenly she heard the steps again, and this time they approached
the dining-room door. Lenora's heart almost ceased to beat: the next
moment the door was opened and someone stood upon the threshold--just
for a second or two ... without moving, whilst Lenora with senses as
alert as those of some feline creature in defence of its life--waited
and watched for her opportunity.
But that opportunity never came, for the newcomer--whoever he
was--suddenly stepped into the room and immediately closed the door
behind him and turned the key in the lock. Lenora was a prisoner, at
the mercy of a man whose secrets she had stolen, and whose life hung
upon all that she had seen and heard this night.
The intruder now groped his way across the room and anon Lenora heard
him first draw aside the curtains from before the window, and then
proceed to open two of the casements. The window gave on the
Nieuwstraate, almost opposite the tavern of the "Three Weavers," at the
entrance of which there hung an iron street-lamp. The light of this
came slanting in through the open casements and Lenora suddenly saw that
it was Mark who was standing there.
Even at this instant he turned and faced her. He showed no sign however
of surprise, but exclaimed quite pleasantly: "By the stars, Madonna! and
who would have thought of meeting you here?"
The tension on Lenora's nerves had been so acute that her self-control
almost gave way with the intensity of her relief when she recognised
Mark and heard the sound of his voice. Her hands began to shake so
violently that the tiny lamp nearly dropped out of them.
She had been so startled that she could not as yet either speak or move,
but just stood there close to the wall, like a pale, slim ghost only
faintly illumined by the slanting light of the street-lamp, her soft,
white gown clinging round her trembling limbs. Her face, bosom and arms
were scarce less white than her gown, and in the dim, mysterious light
her luminous, dark eyes shone with a glow of excitement still vaguely
tinged with dread.
He thought that never in life had he seen anything quite so beautiful,
so pure, so desirable, and yet so pathetic as this young girl, whom but
forty hours ago he had sworn to love, to protect and to cherish. Just
now she looked sadly helpless, despite the fact that gradually a little
air of haughtiness replaced her first look of fear.
"Madonna," he said gently, "are you indeed yourself, or are you your own
wraith? If not, why are you wandering about alone at this hour of the
night?"
"I came to fetch my prayer-book," she said, trying to speak lightly and
with a steady voice. "I thought that I had left it here to-day and
missed it when I went to rest."
"You found the book, I hope," he said, without the slightest trace of
irony.
"No," she replied coldly. "Inez must have put it away. Will you be so
good as to unlock that door."
"I will with pleasure, Madonna. I locked it when I came in, because I
didn't want old Pierre to come shuffling in after me, as he so often
does when I go late to bed. But," he added, putting out his hand, "may
I take this lamp from you. Your hand does not appear to be oversteady
and if the oil were to drip it would spoil your gown."
"The draught blew it out," she retorted, "and I would be glad if you
would relight it. I am going back to my room."
"Precisely," he rejoined dryly as he took the lamp from her and put it
on the table, "and with your leave I would escort you thither."
"I thank you," she rejoined coldly, "I can find my way alone."
"As you please," he said with perfect indifference.
Now that her eyes were more accustomed to the semi-darkness she could
see him more distinctly, and she stared at him in amazement. His
appearance was certainly very different to what it habitually was--for
he usually dressed himself with great care: but now he had on dark
clothes, made of thick woollen stuff, which clung closely to his tall
figure: he wore no ruff, and had on very high boots which reached high
above his knees. Both his clothes and boots were bespattered with mud,
and strangely enough looked also wet through. Somehow the appearance
appeared unreal. It was Mark--and yet it was not. His face, too,
looked flushed, and the lines round his eyes were more deeply marked
than they had ever seemed to be before.
The recollection of all the abominable gossip retailed about him by Inez
and others took possession of her mind. She had been told by all and
sundry that Mark van Rycke had spent most of his day at the "Three
Weavers," and now the flush on his face, the curious dilation of the
pupils of his eyes, seemed to bear mute testimony to all that she had
heard.
Here, then, she already saw the hand of God guiding her future--and
showing her the small glimmer of comfort which He vouchsafed her in the
midst of her perplexities. Life in this house and with this man--who
cared less than nothing for her--would anyhow be intolerable--then
obviously the way was clear for her to go back to her father. She
wished no harm to these people--none to this poor, drunken wretch, who
probably had no thought of rebellion or of heresy, none to Laurence, who
loved her, or to Clemence, who had been kind to her. But she despised
them--aye! and loathed them, and was grateful to God for allowing her to
keep her promise to her father within the first few hours of her married
life.
How terrible would have been the long and weary watching! the
irresolution, the temptation, mayhap, to be false to her oath through
sheer indolence or superacute sentiment!
So now all that she had to do was to go straight back to her father,
tell him all that she knew and then go--go back to the dear old convent
at Segovia--having done more than a woman's share in the service of her
country--and then to rest after that--to spend her life in peace and in
prayer--away from all political intrigues--forgetting that she had ever
been young and felt a vague yearning for happiness.
VI
Mark had made no sign or movement while Lenora stood there before him,
gathering her strength together for what she felt might prove a
struggle. In some unaccountable way she felt a little afraid of
him--not physically of course, but, despite the fact that she had so
impulsively judged him just now--afraid of that searching glance of his
which seemed to lay her innermost thoughts like an open book before his
eyes. She put this strange timidity of hers down to the knowledge that
he had certain lawful rights over her as her lord and husband and that
she would have to obtain his consent before she could think of going to
Brussels on the morrow.
"Messire," she said abruptly, "during this day which you have seen fit
to spend among your habitual boon companions, making merry no doubt, I
have been a great deal alone. Solitude begets sober reason--and I have
come to the conclusion that life under present conditions would be a
perpetual martyrdom to me."
She paused and he rejoined quietly: "I don't think I quite understand,
Madonna. Under what conditions would your life become a martyrdom?"
"Under those of a neglected wife, Messire," she said. "I have no mind to
sit at home--an object of suspicion to your kinsfolk and of derision to
your servants, while the whole town is alive with the gossip that
Messire Mark van Rycke spent the first day of his marriage in the
taverns of Ghent and left his bride to pine in solitude."
"But methought, Madonna," he retorted, "that it was solitude that you
craved for. Both last night and even a moment ago you told me very
plainly that you had no desire for my company."
"Last night I was overwrought and would have made amends to you for my
thoughtlessness at once, only that you left me incontinently without a
further word. As for now, Messire, surely you cannot wonder that I have
no mind for your society after a day's carouse has clouded your brain
and made your glance unsteady."
She thought herself very brave in saying this, and more than half
expected an angry retort from him. Instead of which he suddenly threw
back his head and burst into an immoderate and merry laughter. She
gazed at him horrified and not a little frightened--thinking indeed that
his brain was overclouded--but he, as soon as he had recovered his
composure, asked her with grave attempt at seriousness: "You think that
I am drunk, Madonna? Ye gods!" he exclaimed not without a touch of
bitterness, "hath such a farce ever been enacted before?"
"A farce to you perhaps," she said earnestly, "but a tragedy to me. I
have been rendered wretched and unhappy, Messire, and this despite your
protestations of chivalry. I did not seek you, Messire. This marriage
was forced upon me. It is ungenerous and cowardly to make me suffer
because of it."
"Dastardly and abominable," he assented gravely. "Indeed, Madonna, you
do me far too much honour even to deign to speak with me. I am not
worthy that you should waste a thought on me--but since you have been so
kind thus far, will you extend your generosity to me by allowing me to
give you my most solemn word--to swear to you if need be that I am not
the drunken wretch whom evil tongues have thus described to you.
There," he added more lightly, "will you not deign to sit here a moment?
You are tired and overwrought; let me get you a cup of wine, and see if
some less strenuous talk will chase all those black thoughts from your
mind."
He took her hand and then with gentle yet forceful pressure led her to
the wide hearth and made her sit in the big chair close beside it.
"Alas! there are not even embers in the grate," he said, "I fear me, you
must be cold."
From somewhere out of the darkness--she could not see from where--he
brought a footstool for her feet; then he pulled a low chair forward for
himself and sat down at some little distance from her, in his favourite
attitude, with one elbow on his knee and his face shaded by his hand.
She remained silent for a moment or two, for she suddenly felt an
extraordinary sense of well-being; just the same as she had felt last
night, and once or twice before in his presence. And she felt deeply
sorry for him too. After all, perhaps he had no more desired this
marriage than she had--and no doubt the furrows on his face came from
anxiety and care, and she marvelled what it was that troubled him.
"There," he asked gaily, "are you better now, Madonna?"
"Better, I thank you," she replied.
"Then shall I interpret the thoughts which were coursing behind that
smooth brow of yours, when first I startled you by my presence here?"
"If you will."
He waited a moment, then said dryly: "You desired to convey to me your
wish to return to your father.... Oh! only for a little while," he added
hastily, seeing that she had made a quick, protesting gesture, "but that
was in your mind, was it not?"
She could not deny it, and murmured: "Yes."
"Such a wish, Madonna," he rejoined, gravely, "is as a command to me.
In the late morning the horses will be at your disposal. I will have
the honour to accompany you to Brussels."
"You, Messire!" she exclaimed, "you would..."
"I would do anything to further your wishes, Madonna; this I would have
you believe. And a journey to Brussels is such a small matter...."
"As you say," she murmured. For such are the contradictions of a
woman's heart that all of a sudden she did not wish to go away. All
thoughts of rebellion and conspiracies were unaccountably thrust into
the background of her mind, and ... she did not wish to go away....
"There is no hurry," she continued timidly. "I would not like to put
you to inconvenience."
"Oh!" he rejoined airily, "there is no inconvenience which I would not
gladly bear in order to gratify your wish."
"I shall have to pack my effects...."
"Jeanne will help Inez, and a few things are easily packed. Your
effects shall follow in an ox-wagon; they will be two days on the way;
so I pray you take what is required for your immediate needs and is
easily stowed in your saddle-bow. We shall have to make an early start,
if you desire to be in Brussels by nightfall."
"Oh! there is no hurry," she protested.
"Ah? Then in that case I could escort you as far as Alost, and send a
courier thence to your father, to meet you there the next day."
She bit her lip and could have cried with vexation. At the present
moment she hated him for so obviously wishing to be rid of her. She had
quite forgotten that she had ever wanted to go.
"I shall be too tired to make an early start in the morning," she said
quite piteously. "Why it is close on early morning now."
She leaned a little forward in order to listen, for just then the chimes
of St. Bavon rang the half-hour after midnight. She still looked a
small, pale, slim ghost with one side of her exquisite face in shadow,
the other but faintly illumined by the light from without. Her
vexation, her indecision, were so plainly expressed in her eyes, that he
must indeed have been vastly dull or vastly indifferent not to have read
her thoughts. Nevertheless, he said with the same calm airiness as
before:
"A few hours' rest will revive you, Madonna. And if we only go as far
as Alost to-morrow, we need not start before midday."
At this her pride was aroused. His indifference now amounted to
insolence. With a vigorous effort she swallowed her tears, for they
were very near the surface, and then she rose abruptly, with the air and
manners of a queen, looking down in her turn with haughty indifference
on that abominable Netherlander whom she had never hated so thoroughly
as she did at this moment.
"I thank you, Messire," she said coldly, "I pray you then to see that
all arrangements be complete for my journey as early as may be. I would
wish to be in Brussels by nightfall, and half a dozen leagues or so does
not frighten me."
She rose with all that stateliness which was a part of herself and
suited her tall, graceful figure so admirably; as she did so she gave
him a curt nod such as she would have bestowed on a serving man. He too
rose to his feet but he made no attempt to detain her. On the contrary,
he at once busied himself with his tinder box, and relighted the little
lamp. Then he went to the door, unlocked it and held it open for her to
pass through.
As she did so she took the lamp from him, and for one moment their hands
met. His were burning hot and hers quite cold--his fingers lingered
upon the satiny softness of hers.
But she sailed past him without bestowing another glance upon him, with
little head erect and eyes looking straight out before her. In one hand
she held the lamp, with the other she was holding up the heavy folds of
her trailing gown, her tiny feet in velvet shoes made no sound as she
glided across the hall. Soon she was a mere silhouette with the light
just playing faintly with the loose curls round her head and touching
the lines of her shoulders and arms and one or two folds of her gown.
She mounted the stairs slowly as if she was infinitely weary; Mark
watched the graceful, ghostlike form gliding upwards until the gloom had
swallowed it up.
Then he turned back into the room.
VII
The first thing that Mark did when he was alone was to close the door;
then he struck a light and lit a candle. With it in his hand he went
into the withdrawing-room and--having peered closely into the four
corners of the room, as if he half-expected to see some night-prowler
there--he placed the candle on the table, drew a bunch of keys from the
inner pocket of his doublet, and going up to the bureau proceeded to
unlock it just as Lenora had done.
He gave one quick glance at the interior of the bureau, then he put up
the flap and once more turned the key in the lock.
Having done this he stood for awhile quite still, his chin buried in his
hand, his broad shoulders bent, a deep, double furrow between his brows.
From time to time a deep sigh escaped his lips, and his merry grey eyes
almost disappeared beneath the heavy frown. Then he seemed to shake
himself free from his obsession, he straightened out his tall figure and
threw back his head with a movement of pride and of defiance.
He took up the candle and started to go out of the room, but on the
threshold he paused again and looked behind him. The table, the chairs,
the bureau seemed in a strange weird way to be mocking him--they looked
so placid and so immovable--so stolid in the face of the terrible
calamity which had just fallen on this house.
And suddenly Mark with a violent gesture threw the heavy candlestick to
the ground. The flame flickered as it fell and the taper rolled about
gently for a while from side to side until it landed close to his feet.
He smothered a curse and put his heel upon the taper, crushing the wax
into a shapeless mass; then with a curious groan, half of pain half of
bitter irony, he passed his hand once or twice across his brow.
Slowly the glow of wrath faded from his eyes, a look of wonderful
tenderness, coupled with gentle good-humour and kindliness softened the
rugged lines of his face. A whimsical smile played round the corners of
his lips.
"She must be wooed and she must be won," he murmured. "Mark, you
lumbering fool, can you do it? You have less than twenty-four hours in
which..."
He sighed again and laughed softly to himself, shaking his head
dubiously the while. Then he went out of the room and closed the door
softly behind him.