The agonized cry that had been first heard in the hall had come from
Inez's lips. When she had fled from her father, she had regained her
hiding-place in the gallery above the throne room. She would not go to
her own room, for she felt that rest was out of the question while
Dolores was in such danger; and yet there would have been no object in
going to Don John's door again, to risk being caught by her father or
met by the King himself. She had therefore determined to let an hour
pass before attempting another move. So she slipped into the gallery
again, and sat upon the little wooden bench that had been made for the
Moorish women in old times; and she listened to the music and the sound
of the dancers' feet far below, and to the hum of voices, in which she
often distinguished the name of Don John. She had heard all,--the cries
when it was thought that he was coming, the chamberlain's voice
announcing the King, and then the change of key in the sounds that had
followed. Lastly, she had heard plainly every syllable of her father's
speech, so that when she realized what it meant, she had shrieked aloud,
and had fled from the gallery to find her sister if she could, to find
Don John's body most certainly where it lay on the marble floor, with
the death wound at the breast. Her instinct--she could not have reasoned
then--told her that her father must have found the lovers together, and
that in sudden rage he had stabbed Don John, defenceless.
Dolores' tears answered her sister's question well enough when the two
girls were clasped in one another's arms at last. There was not a doubt
left in the mind of either. Inez spoke first. She said that she had
hidden in the gallery.
"Our father must have come in some time after the King," she said, in
broken sentences, and almost choking. "Suddenly the music stopped. I
could hear every word. He said that he had done it,--that he had
murdered Don John,--and then I ran here, for I was afraid he had killed
you, too."
"Would God he had!" cried Dolores. "Would to Heaven that I were dead
beside the man I love!"
"And I!" moaned Inez pitifully, and she began to sob wildly, as Dolores
had sobbed at first.
But Dolores was silent now, as if she had shed all her tears at once,
and had none left. She held her sister in her arms, and soothed her
almost unconsciously, as if she had been a little child. But her own
thoughts were taking shape quickly, for she was strong; and after the
first paroxysm of her grief, she saw the immediate future as clearly as
the present. When she spoke again she had the mastery of her voice, and
it was clear and low.
"You say that our father confessed before the whole court that he had
murdered Don John?" she said, with a question. "What happened then? Did
the King speak? Was our father arrested? Can you remember?"
"I only heard loud cries," sobbed Inez. "I came to you--as quickly as I
could--I was afraid."
"We shall never see our father again--unless we see him on the morning
when he is to die."
"Dolores! They will not kill him, too?" In sudden and greater fear than
before, Inez ceased sobbing.
"He will die on the scaffold," answered Dolores, in the same clear tone,
as if she were speaking in a dream, or of things that did not come near
her. "There is no pardon possible. He will die to-morrow or the next
day."
The present truth stood out in all its frightful distinctness. Whoever
had done the murder--since Mendoza had confessed it, he would be made to
die for it,--of that she was sure. She could not have guessed what had
really happened; and though the evidence of the sounds she had heard
through the door would have gone to show that Philip had done the deed
himself, yet there had been no doubt about Mendoza's words, spoken to
the King alone over Don John's dead body, and repeated before the great
assembly in the ball-room. If she guessed at an explanation, it was that
her father, entering the bedchamber during the quarrel, and supposing
from what he saw that Don John was about to attack the King, had drawn
and killed the Prince without hesitation. The only thing quite clear was
that Mendoza was to suffer, and seemed strangely determined to suffer,
for what he had or had not done. The dark shadow of the scaffold rose
before Dolores' eyes.
It had seemed impossible that she could be made to bear more than she
had borne that night, when she had fallen upon Don John's body to weep
her heart out for her dead love. But she saw that there was more to
bear, and dimly she guessed that there might be something for her to do.
There was Inez first, and she must be cared for and placed in safety,
for she was beside herself with grief. It was only on that afternoon by
the window that Dolores had guessed the blind girl's secret, which Inez
herself hardly suspected even now, though she was half mad with grief
and utterly broken-hearted.
Dolores felt almost helpless, but she understood that she and her sister
were henceforth to be more really alone in what remained of life than if
they had been orphans from their earliest childhood. The vision of the
convent, that had been unbearable but an hour since, held all her hope
of peace and safety now, unless her father could be saved from his fate
by some miracle of heaven. But that was impossible. He had given himself
up as if he were determined to die. He had been out of his mind, beside
himself, stark mad, in his fear that Don John might bring harm upon his
daughter. That was why he had killed him--there could be no other
reason, unless he had guessed that she was in the locked room, and had
judged her then and at once, and forever. The thought had not crossed
her mind till then, and it was a new torture now, so that she shrank
under it as under a bodily blow; and her grasp tightened violently upon
her sister's arm, rousing the half-fainting girl again to the full
consciousness of pain.
It was no wonder that Mendoza should have done such a deed, since he had
believed her ruined and lost to honour beyond salvation. That explained
all. He had guessed that she had been long with Don John, who had locked
her hastily into the inner room to hide her from the King. Had the King
been Don John, had she loved Philip as she loved his brother, her father
would have killed his sovereign as unhesitatingly, and would have
suffered any death without flinching. She believed that, and there was
enough of his nature in herself to understand it.
She was as innocent as the blind girl who lay in her arms, but suddenly
it flashed upon her that no one would believe it, since her own father
would not, and that her maiden honour and good name were gone for ever,
gone with her dead lover, who alone could have cleared her before the
world. She cared little for the court now, but she cared tenfold more
earnestly for her father's thought of her, and she knew him and the
terrible tenacity of his conviction when he believed himself to be
right. He had proved that by what he had done. Since she understood all,
she no longer doubted that he had killed Don John with the fullest
intention, to avenge her, and almost knowing that she was within
hearing, as indeed she had been. He had taken a royal life in atonement
for her honour, but he was to give his own, and was to die a shameful
death on the scaffold, within a few hours, or, at the latest, within a
few days, for her sake.
Then she remembered how on that afternoon she had seen tears in his
eyes, and had heard the tremor in his voice when he had said that she
was everything to him, that she had been all his life since her mother
had died--he had proved that, too; and though he had killed the man she
loved, she shrank from herself again as she thought what he must have
suffered in her dishonour. For it was nothing else. There was neither
man nor woman nor girl in Spain who would believe her innocent against
such evidence. The world might have believed Don John, if he had lived,
because the world had loved him and trusted him, and could never have
heard falsehood in his voice; but it would not believe her though she
were dying, and though she should swear upon the most sacred and true
things. The world would turn from her with an unbelieving laugh, and she
was to be left alone in her dishonour, and people would judge that she
was not even a fit companion for her blind sister in their solitude. The
King would send her to Las Huelgas, or to some other distant convent of
a severe order, that she might wear out her useless life in grief and
silence and penance as quickly as possible. She bowed her head. It was
too hard to bear.
Inez was more quiet now, and the two sat side by side in mournful
silence, leaning against the parapet. They had forgotten the dwarf, and
he had disappeared, waiting, perhaps, in the shadow at a distance, in
case he might be of use to them. But if he was within hearing, they did
not see him. At last Inez spoke, almost in a whisper, as if she were in
the presence of the dead.
"Were you there, dear?" she asked. "Did you see?"
"I was in the next room," Dolores answered. "I could not see, but I
heard. I heard him fall," she added almost inaudibly, and choking.
Inez shuddered and pressed nearer to her sister, leaning against her,
but she did not begin to sob again. She was thinking.
"Can we not help our father, at least?" she asked presently. "Is there
nothing we can say, or do? We ought to help him if we can,
Dolores--though he did it."
"I would save him with my life, if I could. God knows, I would! He was
mad when he struck the blow. He did it for my sake, because he thought
Don John had ruined my good name. And we should have been married the
day after to-morrow! God of heaven, have mercy!"
Her grief took hold of her again, like a material power, shaking her
from head to foot, and bowing her down upon herself and wringing her
hands together, so that Inez, calmer than she, touched her gently and
tried to comfort her without any words, for there were none to say,
since nothing mattered now, and life was over at its very beginning.
Little by little the sharp agony subsided to dull pain once more, and
Dolores sat upright. But Inez was thinking still, and even in her sorrow
and fright she was gathering all her innocent ingenuity to her aid.
"Is there no way?" she asked, speaking more to herself than to her
sister. "Could we not say that we were there, that it was not our father
but some one else? Perhaps some one would believe us. If we told the
judges that we were quite, quite sure that he did not do it, do you not
think--but then," she checked herself--"then it could only have been the
King."
"Only the King himself," echoed Dolores, half unconsciously, and in a
dreamy tone.
"That would be terrible," said Inez. "But we could say that the King was
not there, you know--that it was some one else, some one we did not
know--"
Dolores rose abruptly from the seat and laid her hand upon the parapet
steadily, as if an unnatural strength had suddenly grown up in her. Inez
went on speaking, confusing herself in the details she was trying to put
together to make a plan, and losing the thread of her idea as she
attempted to build up falsehoods, for she was truthful as their father
was. But Dolores did not hear her.
"You can do nothing, child," she said at last, in a firm tone. "But I
may. You have made me think of something that I may do--it is just
possible--it may help a little. Let me think."
Inez waited in silence for her to go on, and Dolores stood as motionless
as a statue, contemplating in thought the step she meant to take if it
offered the slightest hope of saving her father. The thought was worthy
of her, but the sacrifice was great even then. She had not believed that
the world still held anything with which she would not willingly part,
but there was one thing yet. It might be taken from her, though her
father had slain Don John of Austria to save it, and was to die for it
himself. She could give it before she could be robbed of it, perhaps,
and it might buy his life. She could still forfeit her good name of her
own free will, and call herself what she was not. In words she could
give her honour to the dead man, and the dead could not rise up and deny
her nor refuse the gift. And it seemed to her that when the people
should hear her, they would believe her, seeing that it was her shame, a
shame such as no maiden who had honour left would bear before the world.
But it was hard to do. For honour was her last and only possession now
that all was taken from her.
It was not the so-called honour of society, either, based on
long-forgotten traditions, and depending on convention for its
being--not the sort of honour within which a man may ruin an honest
woman and suffer no retribution, but which decrees that he must take his
own life if he cannot pay a debt of play made on his promise to a
friend, which allows him to lie like a cheat, but ordains that he must
give or require satisfaction of blood for the imaginary insult of a
hasty word--the honour which is to chivalry what black superstition is
to the true Christian faith, which compares with real courage and truth
and honesty, as an ape compares with a man. It was not that, and Dolores
knew it, as every maiden knows it; for the honour of woman is the fact
on which the whole world turns, and has turned and will turn to the end
of things; but what is called the honour of society has been a fiction
these many centuries, and though it came first of a high parentage, of
honest thought wedded to brave deed, and though there are honourable men
yet, these are for the most part the few who talk least loudly about
honour's code, and the belief they hold has come to be a secret and a
persecuted faith, at which the common gentleman thinks fit to laugh lest
some one should presume to measure him by it and should find him
wanting.
Dolores did not mean to hesitate, after she had decided what to do. But
she could not avoid the struggle, and it was long and hard, though she
saw the end plainly before her and did not waver. Inez did not
understand and kept silence while it lasted.
It was only a word to say, but it was the word which would be repeated
against her as long as she lived, and which nothing she could ever say
or do afterwards could take back when it had once been spoken--it would
leave the mark that a lifetime could not efface. But she meant to speak
it. She could not see what her father would see, that he would rather
die, justly or unjustly, than let his daughter be dishonoured before the
world. That was a part of a man's code, perhaps, but it should not
hinder her from saving her father's life, or trying to, at whatever
cost. What she was fighting against was something much harder to
understand in herself. What could it matter now, that the world should
think her fallen from her maiden estate? The world was nothing to her,
surely. It held nothing, it meant nothing, it was nothing. Her world had
been her lover, and he lay dead in his room. In heaven, he knew that she
was innocent, as he was himself, and he would see that she was going to
accuse herself that she might save her father. In heaven, he had
forgiven his murderer, and he would understand. As for the world and
what it said, she knew that she must leave it instantly, and go from the
confession she was about to make to the convent where she was to die,
and whence her spotless soul would soon be wafted away to join her true
lover beyond the earth. There was no reason why she should find it hard
to do, and yet it was harder than anything she had ever dreamed of
doing. But she was fighting the deepest and strongest instinct of
woman's nature, and the fight went hard.
She fancied the scene, the court, the grey-haired nobles, the fair and
honourable women, the brave young soldiers, the thoughtless courtiers,
the whole throng she was about to face, for she meant to speak before
them all, and to her own shame. She was as white as marble, but when she
thought of what was coming the blood sprang to her face and tingled in
her forehead, and she felt her eyes fall and her proud head bend, as the
storm of humiliation descended upon her. She could hear beforehand the
sounds that would follow her words, the sharp, short laugh of jealous
women who hated her, the murmur of surprise among the men. Then the sea
of faces would seem to rise and fall before her in waves, the lights
would dance, her cheeks would burn like flames, and she would grow
dizzy. That would be the end. Afterwards she could go out alone. Perhaps
the women would shrink from her, no man would be brave enough to lead
her kindly from the room. Yet all that she would bear, for the mere hope
of saving her father. The worst, by far the worst and hardest to endure,
would be something within herself, for which she had neither words nor
true understanding, but which was more real than anything she could
define, for it was in the very core of her heart and in the secret of
her soul, a sort of despairing shame of herself and a desolate longing
for something she could never recover.
She closed her tired eyes and pressed her hand heavily upon the stone
coping of the parapet. It was the supreme effort, and when she looked
down at Inez again she knew that she should live to the end of the
ordeal without wavering.
"I am going down to the throne room," she said, very quietly and gently.
"You had better go to our apartment, dear, and wait for me there. I am
going to try and save our father's life--do not ask me how. It will not
take long to say what I have to say, and then I will come to you."
Inez had risen now, and was standing beside her, laying a hand upon her
arm.
"Let me come, too," she said. "I can help you, I am sure I can help
you."
"No," answered Dolores, with authority. "You cannot help me, dearest,
and it would hurt you, and you must not come."
"Then I will stay here," said Inez sorrowfully. "I shall be nearer to
him," she added under her breath.
"Stay here--yes. I will come back to you, and then--then we will go in
together, and say a prayer--his soul can hear us still--we will go and
say good-by to him--together."
Her voice was almost firm, and Inez could not see the agony in her white
face. Then Dolores clasped her in her arms and kissed her forehead and
her blind eyes very lovingly, and pressed her head to her own shoulders
and patted it and smoothed the girl's dark hair.
"I will come back," she said, "and, Inez--you know the truth, my
darling. Whatever evil they may say of me after to-night, remember that
I have said it of myself for our father's sake, and that it is not
true."
"No one will believe it," answered Inez. "They will not believe anything
bad of you."
"Then our father must die."
Dolores kissed her once more and made her sit down, then turned and went
away. She walked quickly along the corridors and descended the second
staircase, to enter the throne room by the side door reserved for the
officers of the household and the maids of honour. She walked swiftly,
her head erect, one hand holding the folds of her cloak pressed to her
bosom, and the other, nervously clenched, and hanging down, as if she
were expecting to strike a blow.
She reached the door, and for a moment her heart stopped beating, and
her eyes closed. She heard many loud voices within, and she knew that
most of the court must still be assembled. It was better that all the
world should hear her--even the King, if he were still there. She pushed
the door open and went in by the familiar way, letting the dark cloak
that covered her court dress fall to the ground as she passed the
threshold. Half a dozen young nobles, grouped near the entrance, made
way for her to pass.
When they recognized her, their voices dropped suddenly, and they stared
after her in astonishment that she should appear at such a time. She was
doubtless in ignorance of what had happened, they thought. As for the
throng in the hall, there was no restraint upon their talk now, and
words were spoken freely which would have been high treason half an hour
earlier. There was the noise, the tension, the ceaseless talking, the
excited air, that belong to great palace revolutions.
The press was closer near the steps of the throne, where the King and
Mendoza had stood, for after they had left the hall, surrounded and
protected by the guards, the courtiers had crowded upon one another, and
those near the further door and outside it in the outer apartments had
pressed in till there was scarcely standing room on the floor of the
hall. Dolores found it hard to advance. Some made way for her with low
exclamations of surprise, but others, not looking to see who she was,
offered a passive resistance to her movements.
"Will you kindly let me pass?" she asked at last, in a gentle tone, "I
am Dolores de Mendoza."
At the name the group that barred her passage started and made way, and
going through she came upon the Prince of Eboli, not far from the steps
of the throne. The English Ambassador, who meant to stay as long as
there was anything for him to observe, was still by the Prince's side.
Dolores addressed the latter without hesitation.
"Don Ruy Gomez," she said, "I ask your help. My father is innocent, and
I can prove it. But the court must hear me--every one must hear the
truth. Will you help me? Can you make them listen?"
Ruy Gomez looked down at Dolores' pale and determined features in
courteous astonishment.
"I am at your service," he answered. "But what are you going to say? The
court is in a dangerous mood to-night."
"I must speak to all," said Dolores. "I am not afraid. What I have to
say cannot be said twice--not even if I had the strength. I can save my
father--"
"Why not go to the King at once?" argued the Prince, who feared trouble.
"For the love of God, help me to do as I wish!" Dolores grasped his arm,
and spoke with an effort. "Let me tell them all, how I know that my
father is not guilty of the murder. After that take me to the King if
you will."
She spoke very earnestly, and he no longer opposed her. He knew the
temper of the court well enough, and was sure that whatever proved
Mendoza innocent would be welcome just then, and though he was far too
loyal to wish the suspicion of the deed to be fixed upon the King, he
was too just not to desire Mendoza to be exculpated if he were innocent.
"Come with me," he said briefly, and he took Dolores by the hand, and
led her up the first three steps of the platform, so that she could see
over the heads of all present.
It was no time to think of court ceremonies or customs, for there was
danger in the air. Ruy Gomez did not stop to make any long ceremony.
Drawing himself up to his commanding height, he held up his white gloves
at arm's length to attract the attention of the courtiers, and in a few
moments there was silence. They seemed an hour of torture to Dolores.
Ruy Gomez raised his voice.
"Grandees! The daughter of Don Diego de Mendoza stands here at my side
to prove to you that he is innocent of Don John of Austria's death!"
The words had hardly left his lips when a shout went up, like a ringing
cheer. But again he raised his hand.
"Hear Doña Maria Dolores de Mendoza!" he cried.
Then he stepped a little away from Dolores, and looked towards her. She
was dead white, and her lips trembled. There was an almost glassy look
in her eyes, and still she pressed one hand to her bosom, and the other
hung by her side, the fingers twitching nervously against the folds of
her skirt. A few seconds passed before she could speak.
"Grandees of Spain!" she began, and at the first words she found
strength in her voice so that it reached the ends of the hall, clear and
vibrating. The silence was intense, as she proceeded.
"My father has accused himself of a fearful crime. He is innocent. He
would no more have raised his hand against Don John of Austria than
against the King's own person. I cannot tell why he wishes to sacrifice
his life by taking upon himself the guilt. But this I know. He did not
do the deed. You ask me how I know that, how I can prove it? I was
there, I, Dolores de Mendoza, his daughter, was there unseen in my
lover's chamber when he was murdered. While he was alive I gave him all,
my heart, my soul, my maiden honour; and I was there to-night, and had
been with him long. But now that he is dead, I will pay for my father's
life with my dishonour. He must not die, for he is innocent. Grandees of
Spain, as you are men of honour, he must not die, for he is one of you,
and this foul deed was not his."
She ceased, her lids drooped till her eyes were half closed and she
swayed a little as she stood. Roy Gomez made one long stride and held
her, for he thought she was fainting. But she bit her lips, and forced
her eyes to open and face the crowd again.
"That is all," she said in a low voice, but distinctly, "It is done. I
am a ruined woman. Help me to go out."
The old Prince gently led her down the steps. The silence had lasted
long after she had spoken, but people were beginning to talk again in
lower tones. It was as she had foreseen it. She heard a scornful woman's
laugh, and as she passed along, she saw how the older ladies shrank from
her and how the young ones eyed her with a look of hard curiosity, as if
she were some wild creature, dangerous to approach, though worth seeing
from a distance.
But the men pressed close to her as she passed, and she heard them tell
each other that she was a brave woman who could dare to save her father
by such means, and there were quick applauding words as she passed, and
one said audibly that he could die for a girl who had such a true heart,
and another answered that he would marry her if she could forget Don
John. And they did not speak without respect, but in earnest, and out of
the fulness of their admiration.
At last she was at the door, and she paused to speak before going out.
"Have I saved his life?" she asked, looking up to the old Prince's kind
face. "Will they believe me?"
"They believe you," he answered. "But your father's life is in the
King's hands. You should go to his Majesty without wasting time. Shall I
go with you? He will see you, I think, if I ask it."
"Why should I tell the King?" asked Dolores. "He was there--he saw it
all--he knows the truth."
She hardly realized what she was saying.
* * * * *