Don John smoothed her golden hair. Never since he had known that he
loved her, had she seemed so beautiful as then, and his thought tried to
hold her as she was, that she might in memory be always the same. There
was colour in her cheeks, a soft flush of happiness that destroyed all
traces of her tears, so that they only left her grey eyes dark and
tender under the long wet lashes.
"It was a cruel dream, dear love! It was not true!" Finding him again,
her voice was low, and sweet with joy.
He smiled, too, and his own eyes were quiet and young, now that the
tempest had passed away, almost out of recollection. It had raged but
for a few moments, but in that time both he and she had lived and loved
as it were through years, and their love had grown better and braver.
She knew that his word was enough, and that he would die rather than
break it; but though she had called herself weak, and had seemed to
break down in despair, she would have left him for ever rather than
believe that he was still in danger through her. She did not again ask
herself whether her sudden resolution had been all for his sake, and had
not formed itself because she dreaded to think of being bound to one who
betrayed his country. She knew it and needed no further self-questioning
to satisfy her. If such a man could have committed crimes, she would
have hated them, not him, she would have pardoned him, not them, she
would still have laid her hand in his before the whole world, though it
should mean shame and infamy, because she loved him and would always
love him, and could never have left him for her own sake, come all that
might. She had said it was a shame to her that she would have loved him
still; yet if it had been so, she would have gloried in being shamed for
his sake, for even then her love might have brought him back from the
depths of evil and made him again for her in truth what he had once
seemed to the whole world. She could have done that, and if in the end
she had saved him she would have counted the price of her name as very
little to set against his salvation from himself. She would have given
that and much more, for her love, as she would freely give all for him
and even for his memory, if he were dead, and if by some unimaginable
circumstances her ruin before the world could keep his name spotless,
and his glory unsullied. For there is nothing that a true-hearted loving
woman will not give and do for him she loves and believes and trusts;
and though she will give the greatest thing last of all, she will give
it in the end, if it can save him from infamy and destruction. For it is
the woman's glory to give, as it is the man's to use strength in the
hour of battle and gentleness in the day of peace, and to follow honour
always.
"Forget it all," answered Don John presently. "Forget it, dear, and
forgive me for it all."
"I can forget it, because it was only a dream," she said, "and I have
nothing to forgive. Listen to me. If it were true--even if I believed
that we had not been dreaming, you and I, could I have anything to
forgive you? What?"
"The mere thought that I could betray a trust, turn against my sovereign
and ruin my country," he answered bravely, and a blush of honest shame
rose in his boyish cheeks.
"It was for me," said Dolores.
That should explain all, her heart said. But he was not satisfied, and
being a man he began to insist.
"Not even for you should I have thought of it," he said. "And there is
the thought to forgive, if nothing else."
"No--you are wrong, love. Because it was for me, it does not need my
forgiveness. It is different--you do not understand yet. It is I who
should have never forgiven myself on earth nor expected pardon
hereafter, if I had let myself be the cause of such deeds, if I had let
my love stand between you and honour. Do you see?"
"I see," he answered. "You are very brave and kind and good. I did not
know that a woman could be like you."
"A woman could be anything--for you--dare anything, do anything,
sacrifice anything! Did I not tell you so, long ago? You only half
believed me, dear--perhaps you do not quite believe me now--"
"Indeed, indeed I do, with all my soul! I believe you as I love you, as
I believe in your love--"
"Yes. Tell me that you do--and tell me that you love me! It is so good
to hear, now that the bad dream is gone."
"Shall I tell you?" He smiled, playing with her hand. "How can I? There
are so few words in which to say so much. But I will tell you this--I
would give my word for you. Does that sound little? You should know, for
you know at what price you would have saved my honour a while ago. I
believe in you so truly that I would stake my word, and my honour, and
my Christian oath upon your faith, and promise for you before God or man
that you will always love me as you do to-day."
"You may pledge all three. I will, and I will give you all I have that
is not God's--and if that is not enough, I will give my soul for yours,
if I may, to suffer in your stead."
She spoke quietly enough, but there was a little quaver of true
earnestness in her voice, that made each word a solemn promise.
"And besides that," she added, "you see how I trust you."
She smiled again as she looked at him, and knew how safe she was, far
safer now than when she had first come with him to the door. Something
told her that he had mastered himself--she would not have wished to
think that she had ruled him? it was enough if she had shown him the
way, and had helped him. He pressed her hand to his cheek and looked
down thoughtfully, wishing that he could find such simple words that
could say so much, but not trusting himself to speak. For though, in
love, a man speaks first, he always finds the least to say of love when
it has strongest hold of him; but a woman has words then, true and
tender, that come from her heart unsought. Yet by and by, if love is not
enduring, so that both tire of it, the man plays the better comedy,
because he has the greater strength, and sometimes what he says has the
old ring in it, because it is so well said, and the woman smiles and
wonders that his love should have lasted longer than hers, and desiring
the illusion, she finds old phrases again; yet there is no life in them,
because when love is dead she thinks of herself, and instead, it was
only of him she thought in the good days when her heart used to beat at
the sound of his footfall, and the light grew dim and unsteady as she
felt his kiss. But the love of these two was not born to tire; and
because he was so young, and knew the world little, save at his sword's
point, he was ashamed that he could not speak of love as well as she.
"Find words for me," he said, "and I will say them, for yours are better
than mine."
"Say, 'I love you, dear,' very softly and gently--not roughly, as you
sometimes do. I want to hear it gently now, that, and nothing else."
She turned a little, leaning towards him, her face near his, her eyes
quiet and warm, and she took his hands and held them together before her
as if he were her prisoner--and indeed she meant that he should not
suddenly take her in his arms, as he often did.
"I love you, dear," he repeated, smiling, and pretending to be very
docile.
"That is not quite the way," she said, with a girlish laugh. "Say it
again--quite as softly, but more tenderly! You must be very much in
earnest, you know, but you must not be in the least violent." She
laughed again. "It is like teaching a young lion," she added. "He may
eat you up at any moment, instead of obeying you. Tell me, you have a
little lion that follows you like a dog when you are in your camp, have
you not? You have not told me about him yet. How did you teach him?"
"I did not try to make him say 'I love you, dear,'" answered Don John,
laughing in his turn.
As he spoke a distant sound caught his ear, and the smile vanished from
his face, for though he heard only the far off rumbling of a coach in
the great court, it recalled him to reality.
"We are playing with life and death," he said suddenly. "It is late, the
King may be here at any moment, and we have decided nothing." He rose.
"Is it late?" asked Dolores, passing her hand over her eyes dreamily. "I
had forgotten--it seems so short. Give me the key on my side of the
door--we had decided that, you know. Go and sit down in your room, as we
agreed. Shall you read my letter again, love? It may be half an hoar
still before the King comes. When he is gone, we shall have all the
night in which to decide, and the nights are very long now. Oh, I hate
to lose one minute of you! What shall you say to the King?"
"I do not know what he may say to me," answered Don John. "Listen and
you shall hear--I would rather know that you hear everything I say. It
will be as if I were speaking before you, and of course I should tell
you everything the King says. He will speak of you, I think."
"Indeed, it would be hard not to listen," said Dolores. "I should have
to stop my ears, for one cannot help hearing every word that is said in
the next room. Do you know? I heard you ask for your white shoes! I
hardly dared to breathe for fear the servants should find out that I was
here."
"So much the better then. Sit in this chair near the door. But be
careful to make no noise, for the King is very suspicious."
"I know. Do not be afraid; I will be as quiet as a mouse. Go, love, go!
It is time--oh, how I hate to let you leave me! You will be careful? You
will not be angry at what he says? You would be wiser if you knew I were
not hearing everything; you will want to defend me if he says the least
word you do not like, but let him say what he will! Anything is better
than an open quarrel between you and the King! Promise me to be very
moderate in what you say, and very patient. Remember that he is the
King!"
"And my brother," said Don John, with some bitterness. "Do not fear. You
know what I have promised you. I will bear anything he may say that
concerns me as well as I can, but if he says anything slighting of
you--"
"But he may--that is the danger. Promise me not to be angry--"
"How can I promise that, if he insults you?"
"No, I did not mean that exactly. Promise that you will not forget
everything and raise your hand against him. You see I know you would."
"No, I will not raise my hand against him. That was in the promise I
made you. And as for being angry, I will do my best to keep my temper."
"I know you will. Now you must go. Good-by, love! Good-by, for a little
while."
"For such a little time shall we say good-by? I hate the word; it makes
me think of the day when I left you last."
"How can I tell what may happen to you when you are out of my sight?"
asked Dolores. "And what is 'good-by' but a blessing each prays for the
other? That is all it means. It does not mean that we part for long,
love. Why, I would say it for an hour! Good-by, dear love, good-by!"
She put up her face to kiss him, and it was so full of trust and
happiness that the word lost all the bitterness it has gathered through
ages of partings, and seemed, what she said it was, a loving blessing.
Yet she said it very tenderly, for it was hard to let him go even for
less than an hour. He said it, too, to please her; but yet the syllables
came mournfully, as if they meant a world more than hers, and the sound
of them half frightened her, so that she was sorry she had asked him for
the word.
"Not so!" she cried, in quick alarm. "You are not keeping anything from
me? You are only going to the next room to meet the King--are you sure?"
"That is all. You see, the word frightened you. It seems such a sad word
to me--I will not say it again."
He kissed her gently, as if to soothe her fear, and then he opened the
door and set the key in the lock on the inside. Then when he was
outside, he lingered a moment, and their lips met once more without a
word, and they nodded and smiled to one another a last time, and he
closed the door and heard her lock it.
When she was alone, she turned away as if he were gone from her
altogether instead of being in the next room, where she could hear him
moving now and then, as he placed his chair near the light to read and
arranged the candlesticks on the table. Then he went to the other door
and opened it and opened the one beyond upon the terrace, and she knew
that he was looking out to see if any one were there. But presently he
came back and sat down, and she distinctly heard the rustle of the
strong writing-paper as he unfolded a letter. It was hers. He was going
to read it, as they had agreed.
So she sat down where she could look at the door, and she tried to force
her eyes to see through it, to make him feel that she was watching him,
that she came near him and stood beside him, and softly read the words
for him, but without looking at them, because she knew them all by
heart. But it was not the same as if she had seen him, and it was very
hard to be shut off from his sight by an impenetrable piece of wood, to
lose all the moments that might pass before the King chose to come.
Another hour might pass. No one could even tell whether he would come at
all after he had consulted with Antonio Perez. The skilful favourite
desired a quarrel between his master and Don John with all his heart,
but he was not ready for it yet. He must have possession of Dolores
first and hide her safely; and when the quarrel came, Don John should
believe that the King had stolen her and imprisoned her, and that she
was treated ill; and for the woman he loved, Don John would tear down
the walls of Madrid, if need be, and if at the last he found her dead,
there would be no harm done, thought Perez, and Don John would hate his
brother even to death, and all Spain would cry out in sympathy and
horror. But all this Dolores could neither know nor even suspect. She
only felt sure that the King and Perez were even now consulting together
to hinder her marriage with Don John, and that Perez might persuade the
King not to see his brother that night.
It was almost intolerable to think that she might wait there for hours,
wasting the minutes for which she would have given drops of blood.
Surely they both were overcautious. The door could be left open, so that
they could talk, and at the first sound without, she could lock it again
and sit down. That would be quite as safe.
She rose and was almost in the act of opening the door again when she
stopped and hesitated. It was possible that at any moment the King might
be at the door; for though she could hear every sound that came from the
next room, the thick curtains that hid the window effectually shut out
all sound from without. It struck her that she could go to the window,
however, and look out. Yet a ray of light might betray her presence in
the room to any one outside, and if she drew aside the curtain the light
would shine out upon the terrace. She listened at Don John's door, and
presently she heard him turn her letter in his hand, and all her heart
went out to him, and she stood noiselessly kissing the panels and saying
over again in her heart that she loved him more than any words could
tell. If she could only see out of the window and assure herself that no
one was coming yet, there would be time to go to him again, for one
moment only, and say the words once more.
Then she sat down and told herself how foolish she was. She had been
separated from him for many long and empty months, and now she had been
with him and talked long with him twice in leas than three hours, and
yet she could not bear that he should be out of her sight five minutes
without wishing to risk everything to see him again. She tried to laugh
at herself, repeating over and over again that she was very, very
foolish, and that she should have a just contempt for any woman who
could be as foolish as she. For some moments she sat still, staring at
the wall.
In the thought of him that filled her heart and soul and mind, she saw
that her own life had begun when he had first spoken to her, and she
felt that it would end with the last good-by, because if he should die
or cease to love her, there would be nothing more to live for. Her early
girlhood seemed dim and far away, dull and lifeless, as if it had not
been hers at all, and had no connection with the present. She saw
herself in the past, as she could not see herself now, and the child she
remembered seemed not herself but another--a fair-haired girl living in
the gloomy old house in Valladolid, with her blind sister and an old
maiden cousin of her father's, who had offered to bring up the two and
to teach them, being a woman of some learning, and who fulfilled her
promise in such a conscientious and austere way as made their lives
something of a burden under her strict rule. But that was all forgotten
now, and though she still lived in Valladolid she had probably changed
but little in the few years since Dolores had seen her; she was part of
the past, a relic of something that had hardly ever had a real
existence, and which it was not at all necessary to remember. There was
one great light in the girl's simple existence, it had come all at once,
and it was with her still. There was nothing dim nor dark nor forgotten
about the day when she had been presented at court by the Duchess
Alvarez, and she had first seen Don John, and he had first seen her and
had spoken to her, when he had talked with the Duchess herself. At the
first glance--and it was her first sight of the great world--she had
seen that of all the men in the great hall, there was no one at all like
him. She had no sooner looked into his face and cast her eyes upon his
slender figure, all in white then, as he was dressed to-night, than she
began to compare him with the rest. She looked so quickly from one to
another that any one might have thought her to be anxiously searching
for a friend in the crowd. But she had none then, and she was but
assuring herself once, and for all her life, that the man she was to
love was immeasurably beyond all other men, though the others were the
very flower of Spain's young chivalry.
Of course, as she told herself now, she had not loved him then, nor even
when she heard his voice speaking to her the first time and was almost
too happy to understand his words. But she had remembered them. He had
asked her whether she lived in Madrid. She had told him that she lived
in the Alcazar itself, since her father commanded the guards and had his
quarters in the palace. And then Don John had looked at her very fixedly
for a moment, and had seemed pleased, for he smiled and said that he
hoped he might see her often, and that if it were in his power to be of
use to her father, he would do what he could. She was sure that she had
not loved him then, though she had dreamed of his winning face and voice
and had thought of little else all the next day, and the day after that,
with a sort of feverish longing to see him again, and had asked the
Duchess Alvarez so many questions about him that the Duchess had smiled
oddly, and had shaken her handsome young head a little, saying that it
was better not to think too much about Don John of Austria. Surely, she
had not loved him already, at first sight. But on the evening of the
third day, towards sunset, when she had been walking with Inez on a
deserted terrace where no one but the two sisters ever went, Don John
had suddenly appeared, sauntering idly out with one of his gentlemen on
his left, as if he expected nothing at all; and he had seemed very much
surprised to see her, and had bowed low, and somehow very soon, blind
Inez, who was little more than a child three years ago, was leading the
gentleman about the terrace, to show him where the best roses grew,
which she knew by their touch and smell, and Don John and Dolores were
seated on an old stone bench, talking earnestly together. Even to
herself she admitted that she had loved him from that evening, and
whenever she thought of it she smelt the first scent of roses, and saw
his face with the blaze of the sunset in his eyes, and heard his voice
saying that he should come to the terrace again at that hour, in which
matter he had kept his word as faithfully as he always did, and
presumably without any especial effort. So she had known him as he
really was, without the formalities of the court life, of which she was
herself a somewhat insignificant part; and it was only when he said a
few words to her before the other ladies that she took pains to say
'your Highness' to him once or twice, and he called her 'Doña Dolores,'
and enquired in a friendly manner about her father's health. But on the
terrace they managed to talk without any such formal mode of address,
and used no names at all for each other, until one day--but she would
not think of that now. If she let her memory run all its course, she
could not sit there with the door closed between him and her, for
something stronger than she would force her to go and open it, and make
sure he was there. This method, indeed, would be a very certain one,
leaving no doubt whatever, but at the present moment it would be foolish
to resort to it, and, perhaps, it would be dangerous, too. The past was
so beautiful and peaceful; she could think its history through many
times up to that point, where thinking was sure to end suddenly in
something which was too present for memory and too well remembered not
to be present.
It came back to her so vividly that she left her seat again and went to
the curtained window, as if to get as far as possible from the
irresistible attraction. Standing there she looked back and saw the key
in the lock. It was foolish, girlish, childish, at such a time, but she
felt that as long as it was there she should want to turn it. With a
sudden resolution and a smile that was for her own weakness, she went to
the door again, listened for footsteps, and then quietly took the key
from the lock. Instantly Don John was on the other side, calling to her
softly.
"What is it?" he asked. "For Heaven's sake do not come in, for I think I
hear him coming."
"No," she answered through the panel. "I was afraid I should turn the
key, so I have taken it out." She paused. "I love you!" she said, so
that he could hear, and she kissed the wood, where she thought his face
must be, just above her own.
"I love you with all my heart!" he answered gently. "Hush, dear love, he
is coming!"
They were like two children, playing at a game; but they were playing on
the very verge of tragedy, playing at life with death at the door and
the safety of a great nation hanging in the balance.
A moment later, Dolores heard Don John opening and shutting the other
doors again, and then there were voices. She heard her father's name
spoken in the King's unmistakable tones, at once harsh and muffled.
Every word came to her from the other room, as if she were present.
"Mendoza," said Philip, "I have private matters to discuss with his
Highness. I desire you to wait before the entrance, on the terrace, and
to let no one pass in, as we do not wish to be disturbed."
Her father did not speak, but she knew how he was bending a little
stiffly, before he went backwards through the open door. It closed
behind him, and the two brothers were alone. Dolores' heart beat a
little faster, and her face grew paler as she concentrated her attention
upon making no noise. If they could hear her as she heard them, a mere
rustling of her silk gown would be enough to betray her, and if then the
King bade her father take her with him, all would be over, for Don John
would certainly not use any violence to protect her.
"This is your bedchamber," said Philip's voice.
He was evidently examining the room, as Don John had anticipated that he
would, for he was moving about. There was no mistaking his heavy steps
for his brother's elastic tread.
"There is no one behind the curtain," said the King, by which it was
clear that he was making search for a possible concealed listener. He
was by no means above such precautions.
"And that door?" he said, with a question. "What is there?"
Dolores' heart almost stood still, as she held her breath, and heard the
clumsy footfall coming nearer.
"It is locked," said Don John, with undisturbed calm. "I have not the
key. I do not know where it is,--it is not here."
As Dolores had taken it from the lock, even the last statement was true
to the letter, and in spite of her anxiety she smiled as she heard it,
but the next moment she trembled, for the King was trying the door, and
it shook under his hand, as if it must fly open.
"It is certainly locked," he said, in a discontented tone. "But I do not
like locked doors, unless I know what is beyond them."
He crossed the room again and called out to Mendoza, who answered at
once.
"Mendoza, come here with me. There is a door here, of which his Highness
has not the key. Can you open it?"
"I will try, your Majesty," answered the General's hard voice.
A moment later the panels shook violently under the old man's weight,
for he was stronger than one might have thought, being lean and tough
rather than muscular. Dolores took the moment when the noise was loudest
and ran a few steps towards the window. Then the sounds ceased suddenly,
and she stood still.
"I cannot open it, your Majesty," said Mendoza, in a disconsolate tone.
"Then go and get the key," answered the King almost angrily.
* * * * *