On Ramon's death-bed she had sworn to her father that she would act andwork for her country and for her King in the way that her father woulddirect.
The time had come, and she did what she believed to be her duty withoutquestion and without false shame.
She knew that the knowledge which she already possessed was of paramountimportance to the Government: the Prince of Orange was in Ghent--who buthe would be called "your Highness"?--and moving about among his friendssurreptitiously and at dead of night? Who but he would speak of themysterious Leatherface as being on the watch for him? The Prince ofOrange was in Ghent and was conspiring against the State. There hadbeen talk of the Duke of Alva's visit to Ghent and of two thousand menbeing secretly armed. What other purpose save that of murder andbloodshed could be served by such secret plottings and the levying oftroops in this illegal manner? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent andwould on the morrow continue his underhand and treasonable machinationsin the house of Messire Deynoot, Procurator-General of Ghent.
That was the extent of Lenora's knowledge, and what could she do withsuch a secret in her possession--she, a helpless girl, a stranger in themidst 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 letevents shape their course?--and detach herself, as it were, from thedestinies of her own country which her father had in a measure entrustedto her stewardship? Could she above all be false to her oath at thevery moment when God gave her an opportunity of fulfilling it and ofworking for her country and her King in a manner which was given to veryfew women to do? Indeed she did not pause to think. Any thought savethat of obedience would be treason to the King and sinful before God.The hour for thought would come later, and with it mayhap regret. Thenso be it. Whatever suffering she would have to endure in the future, inher sentiment and in her feelings, she was ready to acceptunquestioningly, just as she was prepared to fulfil her dutyunquestioningly now. She knew a good deal, but surely not enough. Shehad 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, theprecious pass-key which her father had given her on the very morningwhen he told her how Ramon had come by his death--thecuriously-fashioned piece of steel made by the metal-worker ofToledo--who had been put out of the way, because his skill had made himdangerous--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 thewall of the corridor outside her door there was a little niche whereinstood a statue of the Virgin, and in front of the statute a tiny lightwas kept burning day and night: this would do in lieu of a candle. Shewould take it, she thought, and carry it into the withdrawing-room withher: 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 noreason to wait any longer. And yet for some unaccountable reason shesuddenly felt strangely inert: there were still a few dying embers inthe grate, and she could see quite distinctly the high-backed chair inwhich 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 whichshe had had with him came upon her with a rush. It had been the onlyinterview between them since the blessing of the Church had made themman and wife. It had ended disastrously it is true. Her words: "I hateyou!" had been cruel and untrue, and overwhelming regret suddenly heldher 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 couldalmost believe that Mark was still there--his merry grey eyes lookingdeeply earnest, trying to read her innermost thoughts. Hispersonality--so strange, so baffling even--seemed still to linger inthis 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 wasdoing--of what she must do now or else become false and perjured--atraitor to her race and to her King. No longer was she a blind andunconscious tool of Fate--she was she herself--a woman who lived andthought and suffered: and before her at this moment there was nothingbut an interminable vista of sorrow and suffering and regret.
Whether duty ruled her or sentiment, she--the innocent handmaid ofFate--could reap nothing but remorse in the future; her heart, her veryyouth, must inevitably be crushed between those two potent factors whichwere struggling even now for mastery over her soul.
Indeed was there ever a woman--a mere girl--confronted with soappalling, so intricate a puzzle? The lives of men were in herhands--the Prince of Orange, the High-Bailiff, Mark, Laurence, Clemenceon the one side, on the other the Duke of Alva, her own father, herkindred, all those whom she had clung to and loved throughout her life.
And knowing that she never could solve such an awful problem by herselfLenora fell on her knees and prayed: she prayed with all the fervour,but also with all the simplicity of primitive faith--the faith that iswilling and eager to leave everything in God's hands, to trust toguidance and help from above when life has become a hopeless andinextricable tangle--the faith which hath for its principle loyalty andobedience and which accepts suffering in its cause, and glories in itlike in a martyr's crown.
III
After a few minutes Lenora felt more calm. Her deep and ferventreligious sentiment had risen triumphant over every doubt. While sheprayed so earnestly, so unquestioningly, it had been made clear to herthat the issue of the mighty problem which was putting her very soul onthe rack must remain in mightier hands than hers. She could not be thearbiter of men's lives and of the destinies of the State; all that shecould do was to obey her father and fulfil her oath; beyond that, Godmust decide; He had shown her the way how to obtain the knowledge whichshe now possessed, and since her father was now back in Brussels, shemust find a means of placing that knowledge in his hands. Her father ofa surety was kind and just and God would Himself punish whom He willed.
With this calmer state of mind her resolution became more firm. Shefelt the pass-key safely in her bosom, then stealthily she slipped outof her room: the tiny light was flickering dimly at the foot of theVirgin's statue; Lenora lifted it carefully and with it in her handprepared to go downstairs.
Scarce a sound broke the silence of the night: only the patter of therain against the leaded panes of the windows and an occasional gust ofwind that came roaring down the huge chimneys and shook the frames ofwindows and doors. Before descending the stairs Lenora paused once moreto listen. Down the corridor she could hear Clemence van Rycke in herbedchamber still moving about, and Laurence's footstep on the tiledfloor of his room.
And then the girl--shading the tiny light with her hand--began todescend.
She paused for a moment upon the landing and peeped into the vast hallbelow. It was fortunate that she had the tiny light, as the small lampat the foot of the stairs had since been extinguished; but the littlewick she held only threw out a faint glimmer a yard or two in front ofher, and beyond this small circle there was nothing but impenetrabledarkness.
The house was very still, and Lenora was absolutely without fear. Fromthe church towers of the city, both near and far, there came the soundof bells striking the midnight hour. She waited till the last echo ofthe chimes had died away, then she continued her way down.
IV
Lenora now entered the dining-hall and carefully closed the door behindher. Light in hand she stood for a moment in the very angle of the roomfrom whence she had watched the plotters an hour ago. Nothing had beenderanged.
Then she went into the withdrawing-room, and placed the light upon thecentre table. She looked around her mutely challenging the dumbobjects--the chairs that stood about in disorder, the curtains whichwere not closely drawn, the bureau that was in the corner--to tell herall that she had failed to hear. In this spot a vile conspiracy hadbeen hatched against the Duke of Alva--two
thousand men were implicatedin it--but in what way it threatened the Duke's life she did notknow--nor yet who were all these men who had sat around this table andhatched treason against the King and State.
The tiny wick only shed a very feeble glimmer of light on the top of thetable: it made the shadows on the ceiling dance a weird rigadoon andgrow to fantastic proportions. But Lenora's eyes were growingwell-accustomed to the gloom. Quickly now she drew the pass-key frombetween the folds of her kerchief and went up to the bureau. The ribbonround her neck was in the way so she took it off; with trembling,unerring fingers she groped for the lock and having found it sheinserted the pass-key into it. After a little adjustment, a littletugging and pulling, she found that the lock yielded quite smoothly tothe pressure. The flap came down and displayed the interior of thebureau, consisting of a number of wide pigeon-holes, in each of whichthere was a small iron box such as the rich matrons of Flanders used forputting away their pearls and other pieces of jewellery. On the top ofone of these boxes there was a packet of papers, tied round with a pieceof orange-coloured ribbon. Without a moment's hesitation Lenora tookit. 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 andexamined the writing carefully: it was just a list of names--fifty inall--with places of abode all set out in a double column, and at thebottom was written in a bold hand:
"All the above to Afsemble without any delay in the Barn which isfituated in the North-Weft angle of the Cemetery at the back of theChapel of St. Jan ten Dullen."
Having satisfied herself that the other papers in the packet alsocontained lists of names and brief orders as to place of assembly, shetied them all up together again with the orange-coloured ribbon. Thenshe 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 tothe threshold she paused. She had distinctly heard a furtive footstepin the hall. At once she extinguished the light. Then she waited. Herthoughts had flown to Laurence van Rycke. Perhaps he felt anxious aboutthe papers, and was coming down in order to transfer them to some otherplace of safety. The supposition was terrifying. Lenora felt as if anicy hand had suddenly gripped her heart and was squeezing her very lifeout of it. In this deathlike agony a few seconds went by--indeed theyseemed to the unfortunate girl like an eternity of torment. She hadslipped close to the wall right against the door, so that the moment itwas opened from the outside, and someone entered the room, she couldcontrive to slip out. All might yet be well, if whoever entered did nothappen to carry a light.
Then suddenly she heard the steps again, and this time they approachedthe dining-room door. Lenora's heart almost ceased to beat: the nextmoment the door was opened and someone stood upon the threshold--justfor a second or two ... without moving, whilst Lenora with senses asalert as those of some feline creature in defence of its life--waitedand watched for her opportunity.
But that opportunity never came, for the newcomer--whoever hewas--suddenly stepped into the room and immediately closed the doorbehind him and turned the key in the lock. Lenora was a prisoner, atthe mercy of a man whose secrets she had stolen, and whose life hungupon all that she had seen and heard this night.
The intruder now groped his way across the room and anon Lenora heardhim first draw aside the curtains from before the window, and thenproceed to open two of the casements. The window gave on theNieuwstraate, almost opposite the tavern of the "Three Weavers," at theentrance of which there hung an iron street-lamp. The light of thiscame slanting in through the open casements and Lenora suddenly saw thatit was Mark who was standing there.
Even at this instant he turned and faced her. He showed no sign howeverof surprise, but exclaimed quite pleasantly: "By the stars, Madonna! andwho would have thought of meeting you here?"
The tension on Lenora's nerves had been so acute that her self-controlalmost gave way with the intensity of her relief when she recognisedMark and heard the sound of his voice. Her hands began to shake soviolently 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 onlyfaintly illumined by the slanting light of the street-lamp, her soft,white gown clinging round her trembling limbs. Her face, bosom and armswere scarce less white than her gown, and in the dim, mysterious lighther luminous, dark eyes shone with a glow of excitement still vaguelytinged 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 butforty hours ago he had sworn to love, to protect and to cherish. Justnow she looked sadly helpless, despite the fact that gradually a littleair of haughtiness replaced her first look of fear.
"Madonna," he said gently, "are you indeed yourself, or are you your ownwraith? If not, why are you wandering about alone at this hour of thenight?"
"I came to fetch my prayer-book," she said, trying to speak lightly andwith a steady voice. "I thought that I had left it here to-day andmissed it when I went to rest."
"You found the book, I hope," he said, without the slightest trace ofirony.
"No," she replied coldly. "Inez must have put it away. Will you be sogood as to unlock that door."
"I will with pleasure, Madonna. I locked it when I came in, because Ididn't want old Pierre to come shuffling in after me, as he so oftendoes when I go late to bed. But," he added, putting out his hand, "mayI take this lamp from you. Your hand does not appear to be oversteadyand if the oil were to drip it would spoil your gown."
"The draught blew it out," she retorted, "and I would be glad if youwould relight it. I am going back to my room."
"Precisely," he rejoined dryly as he took the lamp from her and put iton 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 couldsee him more distinctly, and she stared at him in amazement. Hisappearance was certainly very different to what it habitually was--forhe usually dressed himself with great care: but now he had on darkclothes, made of thick woollen stuff, which clung closely to his tallfigure: he wore no ruff, and had on very high boots which reached highabove his knees. Both his clothes and boots were bespattered with mud,and strangely enough looked also wet through. Somehow the appearanceappeared unreal. It was Mark--and yet it was not. His face, too,looked flushed, and the lines round his eyes were more deeply markedthan they had ever seemed to be before.
The recollection of all the abominable gossip retailed about him by Inezand others took possession of her mind. She had been told by all andsundry that Mark van Rycke had spent most of his day at the "ThreeWeavers," and now the flush on his face, the curious dilation of thepupils of his eyes, seemed to bear mute testimony to all that she hadheard.
Here, then, she already saw the hand of God guiding her future--andshowing her the small glimmer of comfort which He vouchsafed her in themidst of her perplexities. Life in this house and with this man--whocared less than nothing for her--would anyhow be intolerable--thenobviously the way was clear for her to go back to her father. Shewished no harm to these people--none to this poor, drunken wretch, whoprobably had no thought of rebellion or of heresy, none to Laurence, wholoved her, or to Clemence, who had been kind to her. But she despisedthem--aye! and loathed them, and was grateful to God for allowing her tokeep her promise to her father within the first few hours of her marriedlife.
How terrible would have been the long and weary watching! theirresolution, the temptation, mayhap, to be false to her oath throughsheer indolence or superacute sentiment!
So now all that s
he 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 conventat Segovia--having done more than a woman's share in the service of hercountry--and then to rest after that--to spend her life in peace and inprayer--away from all political intrigues--forgetting that she had everbeen 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 astruggle. In some unaccountable way she felt a little afraid ofhim--not physically of course, but, despite the fact that she had soimpulsively judged him just now--afraid of that searching glance of hiswhich seemed to lay her innermost thoughts like an open book before hiseyes. She put this strange timidity of hers down to the knowledge thathe had certain lawful rights over her as her lord and husband and thatshe would have to obtain his consent before she could think of going toBrussels on the morrow.
"Messire," she said abruptly, "during this day which you have seen fitto spend among your habitual boon companions, making merry no doubt, Ihave been a great deal alone. Solitude begets sober reason--and I havecome to the conclusion that life under present conditions would be aperpetual 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 tosit at home--an object of suspicion to your kinsfolk and of derision toyour servants, while the whole town is alive with the gossip thatMessire Mark van Rycke spent the first day of his marriage in thetaverns of Ghent and left his bride to pine in solitude."