Inez remained hidden a quarter of an hour in the gallery over the throne
room, before she ventured to open the door noiselessly and listen for
any sound that might come from the passage. She was quite safe there, as
long as she chose to remain, for the Princess had believed that she had
fled far beyond and was altogether out of reach of any one whose dignity
would not allow of running a race. It must be remembered that at the
time she entered the gallery Mendoza had returned to his duty below, and
that some time afterwards he had accompanied the King to Don John's
apartments, and had then been sent in search of the key to the locked
door.
The blind girl was of course wholly ignorant of his whereabouts, and
believed him to be in or about the throne room. Her instinct told her
that since Dolores had not gone to the court, as she had intended, with
the Duchess Alvarez, she must have made some last attempt to see Don
John alone. In her perfect innocence such an idea seemed natural enough
to Inez, and it at first occurred to her that the two might have
arranged to meet on the deserted terrace where they had spent so many
hours in former times. She went there first, finding her way with some
little difficulty from the corridor where the gallery was, for the
region was not the one to which she was most accustomed, though there
was hardly a corner of the upper story where she had never been.
Reaching the terrace, she went out and called softly, but there was no
answer, nor could she hear any sound. The night was not cold now, but
the breeze chilled her a little, and just then the melancholy cry of a
screech owl pierced the air, and she shivered and went in again.
She would have gone to the Duchess Alvarez had she not been sure that
the latter was below with the Queen, and even as it was, she would have
taken refuge in the Duchess's apartments with the women, and she might
have learned something of Dolores there. But her touch reminded her that
she was dressed in her sister's clothes, and that many questions might
be asked her which it would be hard to answer. And again, it grew quite
clear to her that Dolores must be somewhere near Don John, perhaps
waiting in some concealed corner until all should be quiet. It was more
than probable that he would get her out of the palace secretly during
the night and send her to his adoptive mother at Villagarcia. She had
not believed the Princess's words in the least, but she had not
forgotten them, and had argued rightly enough to their real meaning.
In the upper story all was still now. She and Dolores had known where
Don John was to be lodged in the palace nearly a month before he had
returned, and they had been there more than once, when no one was on the
terrace, and Dolores had made her touch the door and the six windows,
three on each side of it. She could get there without difficulty,
provided that no one stopped her.
She went a little way in the right direction and then hesitated. There
was more danger to Dolores than to herself if she should be recognized,
and, after all, if Dolores was near Don John she was safer than she
could be anywhere else. Inez could not help her very much in any way if
she found her there, and it would be hard to find her if she had met
Mendoza at first and if he had placed her in the keeping of a third
person. She imagined what his astonishment would have been had he found
the real Dolores in her court dress a few moments after Inez had been
delivered over to the Princess disguised in Dolores' clothes, and she
almost smiled. But then a great loneliness and a sense of helplessness
came over her, and she turned back and went out upon the deserted
terrace again and sat down upon the old stone seat, listening for the
screech owl and the fluttering of the bats that flew aimlessly in and
out, attracted by the light and then scared away by it again because the
moon was at the full.
Inez had never before then wandered about the palace at night, and
though darkness and daylight were one to her, there was something in the
air that frightened her, and made her feel how really helpless she was
in spite of her almost superhuman hearing and her wonderful sense of
touch. It was very still--it was never so still by day. It seemed as if
people must be lying in wait for her, holding their breath lest she
should hear even that. She had never felt blind before; she had never so
completely realized the difference between her life and the lives of
others. By day, she could wander where she pleased on the upper
story--it was cheerful, familiar; now and then some one passed and
perhaps spoke to her kindly, as every one did who knew her; and then
there was the warm sunlight at the windows, and the cool breath of the
living day in the corridors. The sounds guided her, the sun warmed her,
the air fanned her, the voices of the people made her feel that she was
one of them. But now, the place was like an empty church, full of tombs
and silent as the dead that lay there. She felt horribly lonely, and
cold, and miserable, and she would have given anything to be in bed in
her own room. She could not go there. Eudaldo would not understand her
return, after being told that she was to stay with the Princess, and she
would be obliged to give him some explanation. Then her voice would
betray her, and there would be terrible trouble. If only she had kept
her own cloak to cover Dolores' frock, she could have gone back and the
servant would have thought it quite natural Indeed, by this time he
would be expecting her. It would be almost better to go in after all,
and tell him some story of her having mistaken her sister's skirt for
her own, and beg him to say nothing. She could easily confuse him a
little so that he would not really understand--and then in a few minutes
she could be in her own room, safe and in bed, and far away from the
dismal place where she was sitting and shivering as she listened to the
owls.
She rose and began to walk towards her father's quarters. But suddenly
she felt that it was cowardly to go back without accomplishing the least
part of her purpose, and without even finding out whether Dolores was in
safety after all. There was but one chance of finding her, and that lay
in searching the neighbourhood of Don John's lodging. Without hesitating
any longer, she began to find her way thither at once. She determined
that if she were stopped, either by her father or the Princess, she
would throw back her head and show her face at once. That would be the
safest way in the end.
She reached Don John's windows unhindered at last. She had felt every
corner, and had been into the empty sentry-box; and once or twice, after
listening a long time, she had called Dolores in a very low tone. She
listened by the first window, and by the second and third, and at the
door, and then beyond, till she came to the last. There were voices
there, and her heart beat quickly for a moment. It was impossible to
distinguish the words that were spoken, through the closed window and
the heavy curtains, but the mere tones told her that Don John and
Dolores were there together. That was enough for her, and she could go
back to her room; for it seemed quite natural to her that her sister
should be in the keeping of the man she loved,--she was out of harm's
way and beyond their father's power, and that was all that was
necessary. She would go back to her room at once, and explain the matter
of her dress to Eudaldo as best she might. After all, why should he care
what she wore or where she had been, or whether in the Princess's
apartments she had for some reason exchanged gowns with Dolores. Perhaps
he would not even notice the dress at all.
She meant to go at once, but she stood quite still, her hands resting on
the low sill of the window, while her forehead pressed against the cold
round panes of glass. Something hurt her which she could not understand,
as she tried to fancy the two beautiful young beings who were
within,--for she knew what beauty they had, and Dolores had described
Don John to her as a young god. His voice came to her like strains of
very distant sweet music, that connect themselves to an unknown melody
in the fancy of him who faintly hears. But Dolores was hearing every
word he said, and it was all for her; and Dolores not only heard, but
saw; and seeing and hearing, she was loved by the man who spoke to her,
as dearly as she loved him.
Then utter loneliness fell upon the blind girl as she leaned against the
window. She had expected nothing, she had asked nothing, even in her
heart; and she had less than nothing, since never on earth, nor in
heaven hereafter, could Don John say a loving word to her. And yet she
felt that something had been taken from her and given to her
sister,--something that was more to her than life, and dearer than the
thought of sight to her blindness. She had taken what had not been given
her, in innocent girlish thoughts that were only dreams, and could hurt
no one. He had always spoken gently to her, and touched her hand kindly;
and many a time, sitting alone in the sun, she had set those words to
the well-remembered music of his voice, and she had let the memory of
his light touch on her fingers thrill her strangely to the very quick.
It had been but the reflection of a reflection in her darkness, wherein
the shadow of a shadow seemed as bright as day. It had been all she had
to make her feel that she was a part of the living, loving world she
could never see. Somehow she had unconsciously fancied that with a
little dreaming she could live happy in Dolores' happiness, as by a
proxy, and she had never called it love, any more than she would have
dared to hope for love in return. Yet it was that, and nothing
else,--the love that is so hopeless and starving, and yet so innocent,
that it can draw the illusion of an airy nourishment from that which to
another nature would be the fountain of all jealousy and hatred.
But now, without reason and without warning, even that was taken from
her, and in its place something burned that she did not know, save that
it was a bad thing, and made even blackness blacker. She heard their
voices still. They were happy together, while she was alone outside, her
forehead resting against the chill glass, and her hands half numb upon
the stone; and so it would always be hereafter. They would go, and take
her life with them, and she should be left behind, alone for ever; and a
great revolt against her fate rose quickly in her breast like a flame
before the wind, and then, as if finding nothing to consume, sank down
again into its own ashes, and left her more lonely than before. The
voices had ceased now, or else the lovers were speaking very low,
fearing, perhaps, that some one might be listening at the window. If
Inez had heard their words at first, she would have stopped her ears or
gone to a distance, for the child knew what that sort of honour meant,
and had done as much before. But the unformed sound had been good to
hear, and she missed it. Perhaps they were sitting close and, hand in
hand, reading all the sweet unsaid things in one another's eyes. There
must be silent voices in eyes that could see, she thought. She took
little thought of the time, yet it seemed long to her since they had
spoken. Perhaps they had gone to another room. She moved to the next
window and listened there, but no sound came from within. Then she heard
footfalls, and one was her father's. Two men were coming out by the
corridor, and she had not time to reach the sentry-box. With her hands
out before her, she went lightly away from the windows to the outer side
of the broad terrace, and cowered down by the balustrade as she ran
against it, not knowing whether she was in the moonlight or the shade.
She had crossed like a shadow and was crouching there before Mendoza and
the King came out. She knew by their steady tread, that ended at the
door, that they had not noticed her; and as the door closed behind them,
she ran back to the window again and listened, expecting to hear loud
and angry words, for she could not doubt that the King and her father
had discovered that Dolores was there, and had come to take her away.
The Princess must have told Mendoza that Dolores had escaped. But she
only heard men's voices speaking in an ordinary tone, and she understood
that Dolores was concealed. Almost at once, and to her dismay, she heard
her father's step in the hall, and now she could neither pass the door
nor run across the terrace again. A moment later the King called him
from within. Instantly she slipped across to the other side, and
listened again. They were shaking a door,--they were in the very act of
finding Dolores. Her heart hurt her. But then the noise stopped, as if
they had given up the attempt, and presently she heard her father's step
again. Thinking that he would remain in the hall until the King called
him,--for she could not possibly guess what had happened,--she stood
quite still.
The door opened without warning, and he was almost upon her before she
knew it. To hesitate an instant was out of the question, and for the
second time that night she fled, running madly to the corridor, which
was not ten steps from where she had been standing, and as she entered
it the light fell upon her from the swinging lamp, though she did not
know it.
Old as he was, Mendoza sprang forward in pursuit when he saw her figure
in the dimness, flying before him, but as she reached the light of the
lamp he stopped himself, staggering one or two steps and then reeling
against the wall. He had recognized Dolores' dress and hood, and there
was not the slightest doubt in his mind but that it was herself. In that
same dress he had seen her in the late afternoon, she had been wearing
it when he had locked her into the sitting-room, and, still clad in it,
she must have come out with the Princess. And now she was running before
him from Don John's lodging. Doubtless she had been in another room and
had slipped out while he was trying the door within.
He passed his hand over his eyes and breathed hard as he leaned against
the wall, for her appearance there could only mean one thing, and that
was ruin to her and disgrace to his name--the very end of all things in
his life, in which all had been based upon his honour and every action
had been a tribute to it.
He was too much stunned to ask himself how the lovers had met, if there
had been any agreement between them, but the frightful conviction took
hold of him that this was not the first time, that long ago, before Don
John had led the army to Granada, Dolores had found her way to that same
door and had spent long hours with her lover when no one knew. Else she
could not have gone to him without agreement, at an instant's notice, on
the very night of his return.
Despair took possession of the unhappy man from that moment. But that
the King was with Don John, Mendoza would have gone back at that moment
to kill his enemy and himself afterwards, if need be. He remembered his
errand then. No doubt that was the very room where Dolores had been
concealed, and she had escaped from it by some other way, of which her
father did not know. He was too dazed to think connectedly, but he had
the King's commands to execute at once. He straightened himself with a
great effort, for the weight of his years had come upon him suddenly and
bowed him like a burden. With the exertion of his will came the thirst
for the satisfaction of blood, and he saw that the sooner he returned
with the key, the sooner he should be near his enemy. But the pulses
came and went in his throbbing temples, as when a man is almost spent in
a struggle with death, and at first he walked uncertainly, as if he felt
no ground under his feet.
By the time he had gone a hundred yards he had recovered a sort of
mechanical self-possession, such as comes upon men at very desperate
times, when they must not allow themselves to stop and think of what is
before them. They were pictures, rather than thoughts, that formed
themselves in his brain as he went along, for he saw all the past years
again, from the day when his young wife had died, he being then already
in middle age, until that afternoon. One by one the years came back, and
the central figure in each was the fair-haired little child, growing
steadily to be a woman, all coming nearer and nearer to the end he had
seen but now, which was unutterable shame and disgrace, and beyond which
there was nothing. He heard the baby voice again, and felt the little
hands upon his brow, and saw the serious grey eyes close to his own; and
then the girl, gravely lovely--and her far-off laugh that hardly ever
rippled through the room when he was there; and then the stealing
softness of grown maidenhood, winning the features one by one, and
bringing back from death to life the face he had loved best, and the
voice with long-forgotten tones that touched his soul's quick, and
dimmed his sight with a mist, so that he grew hard and stern as he
fought within him against the tenderness he loved and feared. All this
he saw and heard and felt again, knowing that each picture must end but
in one way, in the one sight he had seen and that had told his shame--a
guilty woman stealing by night from her lover's door. Not only that,
either, for there was the almost certain knowledge that she had deceived
him for years, and that while he had been fighting so hard to save her
from what seemed but a show of marriage, she had been already lost to
him for ever and ruined beyond all hope of honesty.
They were not thoughts, but pictures of the false and of the true, that
rose and glowed an instant and then sank like the inner darkness of his
soul, leaving only that last most terrible one of all behind them,
burned into his eyes till death should put out their light and bid him
rest at last, if he could rest even in heaven with such a memory.
It was too much, and though he walked upright and gazed before him, he
did not know his way, and his feet took him to his own door instead of
on the King's errand. His hand was raised to knock before he understood,
and it fell to his side in a helpless, hopeless way, when he saw where
he was. Then he turned stiffly, as a man turns on parade, and gathered
his strength and marched away with a measured tread. For the world and
what it held he would not have entered his dwelling then, for he felt
that his daughter was there before him, and that if he once saw her face
he should not be able to hold his hand. He would not see her again on
earth, lest he should take her life for what she had done.
He was more aware of outward things after that, though he almost
commanded himself to do what he had to do, as he would have given orders
to one of his soldiers. He went to the chief steward's office and
demanded the key of the room in the King's name. But it was not
forthcoming, and the fact that it could not be found strengthened his
conviction that Don John had it in his keeping. Yet, for the sake of
form, he insisted sternly, saying that the King was waiting for it even
then. Servants were called and examined and threatened, but those who
knew anything about it unanimously declared that it had been left in the
door, while those who knew nothing supported their fellow-servants by
the same unhesitating assertion, till Mendoza was convinced that he had
done enough, and turned his back on them all and went out with a grey
look of despair on his face.
He walked rapidly now, for he knew that he was going back to meet his
enemy, and he was trying not to think what he should do when he should
see Don John before him and at arm's length, but defended by the King's
presence from any sudden violence. He knew that in his heart there was
the wild resolve to tell the truth before his master and then to take
the payment of blood with one thrust and destroy himself with the next,
but though he was half mad with despair, he would not let the thought
become a resolve. In his soldier's nature, high above everything else
and dominating his austere conscience of right and wrong, as well as
every other instinct of his heart, there was the respect of his
sovereign and the loyalty to him at all costs, good or bad, which sent
self out of sight where his duty to the King was concerned.
* * * * *