 CHAPTER VIII. THE WATER IN THE NIGHT. Lenora, thinking that Mavru van Rijk was still a stirrer, 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 a while her eyes became a little more accustomed to the gloom. She tiptoed 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 Beloff 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 center, the men sitting around it, and Clemont's van Rijk in a high-backed 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 farthing-gel 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 tomorrow in the house of the procurator general and finally she saw Lawrence van Rijk 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 may have 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 Lawrence had locked the papers in the Bureau it was obvious that the meeting was at an end, she had only just time to flint 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 Clémence van Rijk 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 Monsieur de Nout. 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, Clémence and Lawrence 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 Clémence van Rijk's shuffling footsteps passing down the corridor and Lawrence'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. The fire had burnt low, only the last dying embers of the charred pine logs threw a wide glowing band across the center 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 a while, 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 Lawrence, up to his neck in all his treachery and abominable rebellion. Another quarter of an hour went by. The clock of St. Bavan 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 farthing-gale which had so impeded her movements a while ago and groped in the press for a clinging robe which would envelope 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 be best 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 deathbed 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 leather face 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 Messur Denut, 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 faults 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 forethought would come later and with it may have 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 fulfill her duty unquestioningly now. She knew a good deal, but surely not enough. She had seen Lawrence van Rijk 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 statue 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 highback 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 gray 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 could almost hear his voice rugged yet at times so sweet and tender, echoing softly along the rafters. And all of a sudden she realized 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 handmade 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, Lawrence, Clémence, 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 fervor, 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 have for its principle loyalty and obedience and which accept suffering in its cause and glories in it like in a martyr's crown. 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 fulfill 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 assurity 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 past 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 statue. Lenora lifted it carefully and with it in her hand, prepared to go downstairs. Scarce's sound broke the silence of the night. Only the patter of the rain against the leaded pains 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 Clémence van Rijk in her bedchamber still moving about, and Lawrence'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 throughout 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. 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 center 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 around 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 pigeonholes 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 jewelry. On the top of one of these boxes there was a packet of papers tied round with a piece of orange colored 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 assemble without any delay in the barn which is situated in the northwest angle of the cemetery at the back of the chapel of Saint Jan Tendulin. 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 colored 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. Light in hand she went tiptoeing 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 Lawrence Van Rijk. Perhaps he felt anxious about the papers and was coming down in order to transfer them to some other place of safety. This opposition 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 defense 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 secret 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 a non-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 new strata 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 recognized 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 wrath? 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 today 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, I nes 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 draft 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 woolen stuff, which clung closely to his tall figure. He wore no rough, 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 Inés and others took possession of her mind. She had been told by all and sundry that Mark van Rijk 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 this 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, than 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 rouch, who probably had no thought of rebellion or of heresy, none to Lawrence, who loved her, or to Clémence, who had been kind to her. But she despised them, I, 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 may have to be faults to her oath through sheer indolence or super acute 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 back to the dear old convent at Segovia, having done more than a woman 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. 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. M'sour, 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, M'sour, 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 Monsieur Marc van Rijk spent the first day of his marriage in the taverns of Ghent, and left his bride to pine in solitude. But me thought, 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, M'sour, 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 overcrowded. 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, M'sour, and this, despite your protestations of chivalry, I did not seek you, M'sour. 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 honor even to dane 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 dane 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 great, 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 favorite 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 marveled what it was that troubled him. There, he asked Gailey, 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 honor to accompany you to Brussels. You, Monsieur, 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 the 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 eerily, there is no inconvenience, which I would not gladly bear in order to gratify your wish. I shall have to pack my effects. Genie will help Ines, 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 a lost, and send a courier thanks 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 Saint Baven 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 eriness as before, a few hours rest will revive you, Madonna, and if we only go as far as a lost tomorrow 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, monsieur, 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 statelyness 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 tinderbox 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, ghost-like form gliding upstairs until the gloom had swallowed it up. Then he turned back into the room. 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-preller 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 a while 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 gray 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 humor 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 left softly to himself, shaking his head dubiously the while. Then he went out of the room and closed the door, softly, behind him. Old Flanders by Baroness Orksy Chapter 9 A Divided Duty Strange and conflicting were the feelings which ran riot through Lenora's soul when she once more found herself alone in her own room. Mortification held for a time undisputed sway, a sense of injury, of having gone halfway to meet she knew not what, and having been repulsed she was quite sure that she hated her husband now far more bitterly than she had ever hated anyone before. At the same time she felt relieved that he at any rate had no part in the treachery which was being hatched under his father's roof. One thing, however, gave her an infinite sense of relief. She was going back to her father on the morrow. She would leave this house where she had known nothing but sorrow and humiliation since first she entered it. Above all, she would never see those people again on whom she had been spying. Yes, spying. There was no other word for it hideous as it was it expressed what Lenora had done. Oh, there was no sophistry about the girl. She was too proud, too pure, to try and paliate what she had done by shirking to call it by its name. She had done a task which had been imposed on her by her king, her country, and her father. She had sworn to do it, sworn it on the deathbed of the only man who had ever loved her, the only man whose voice and touch had thrilled her, the companion of her childhood, her accepted lover, and her kinsman. She had done it because God himself, through her father's and her king's own mouth, had ordered her to do it, and it was not for her, ignorant, unsophisticated, sinful may have, to question God's decrees. But when she thought back on the events of the past hour, she felt a shudder of horror slowly creeping along her spine, and she thanked God that he would allow her to leave this house forever and forever to turn her back on those whom she so unwillingly had betrayed. But she would not allow her mind to dwell on such morbid fancies. There was a great deal to be done ere the morning broke. Her task, if it was to be fruitful, was not completed yet. She began by taking down a pair of metal candlesticks which stood on a shelf above the hearth and lighting the candles at a small lamp which she had brought up with her. These she placed upon the table. Then she went to the press, where only a few hours ago Inez had ranged all her clothes and effects, her new gowns and linen. From among these things she took a flat wallet in which there were some sheets of paper, a quill and small inkhorn, also some wax for sealing letters down. She went to her task slowly and methodically, for she was unaccustomed to writing letters in the convent they had taught her how to do it, and twice a year she had written to her father once on New Year's Day and once on the feast of San Juan. But the task before her was a far more laborious one than she had ever undertaken with pen and paper. But she sat down courageously to write. She wrote an account of everything that she had seen, heard, and experienced in this house from the moment when first she left her room in the evening in order to seek companionship until the moment when, having secured the packet of papers, she had relocked the bureau with her passkey and started to go back to her room. What she did not sit down in writing was her subsequent meeting with her husband, for that had no connection with the Prince of Orange or with conspiracies and was merely a humiliating episode in the life of a neglected bride. The grey dawn slowly creeping in through the leaded glass of her window still found her at her task. The candles had burned down low in their sockets, their light of a dim yellow color fought feebly against the incoming dawn, but Lenora felt no fatigue. She wrote in a small cramped hand and covered four sheets of paper with close writing. When she had finished, she read all that she had written down carefully through, made several corrections in the text, and folded the sheets neatly together. Then she took from the bosom of her gown the packet of papers, which she had found in the bureau, put it together with her own writing, and enclosed everything in a clean sheet of paper carefully folded over. Round this, she tied a piece of white ribbon, such as she used for doing up her hair, and sealed it all down with wax. Finally on the outside of this packet, she wrote with a clear hand to Don Juan de Vargas at his residence in Brussels to be given unto him with the seal unbroken in the event of my death. Lenora tired out with emotion and bodily exertion slept soundly for a few hours. When Inez came in in the late morning to wait on her, she ordered the old woman to put a few necessary effects in a small leather of the lease and to pack up all her things and all her clothes. My father hath need of me for a few days, she said in response to Inez's exclamation of astonishment. We start this morning for Brussels, for which the Lord be praised, ejaculated Inez piously for of all the dull, miserable, uncomfortable houses that I ever was in in my life. Hold your tongue, woman, broke in Lenora sharply, and see to your work, you will never be done if you talk so much. And Inez, more than ever astonished at this display of temper on the part of a young mistress who had always been kind and gentle, had perforce to continue her mutterings and her grumblings under her breath. Whilst the old woman laid out carefully upon the bed all the pretty things which she had stowed away in the presses only twenty-four hours ago, Lenora busied herself with yet another task which she had set herself but which she had been too tired to accomplish in the night. She wrote a short letter to Lawrence. My devoted friend, she wrote, you promised me a very little while ago that if ever I wanted you to do something for me I was only to send you this ring and you would do whatever I asked. Now in the name of our Lady I adjure you to leave Ghent at once, taking your mother with you. A grave danger threatens you both. I know that you have relatives in Harlem. I entreat you. Nay, I ask it of you as a fulfillment of your promise to go to them at once with your mother. Your father is in no danger, and Mark will be escorting me to Brussels, and I shall try and keep him there until all danger is past. Having written thus far, she paused a moment, pen in hand, a frown of deep puzzlement and of indecision upon her brow. Then she continued in a firm hand. It is your mother's and your own complicity in the plot which is being hatched in Ghent against the Duke of Elva which has brought your lives in danger. She strewed the sand over her writing, then read the letter carefully through, after which she took a ring from off her finger, enclosed it in the letter, and sealed the letter down. Ainez, she said, yes, my saint, I shall be starting for Brussels within the hour. Holy Virgin, exclaimed the old woman, I shall not be ready with the packing. Why this hurry, my angel? You are not being ready, Ainez, is of no consequence. I shall start with Mr. van Rijk. You will follow on in the wagon. But my saint, now do not talk so much, Ainez broke in Lenora impatiently. If you add to my anxieties by being quarrelsome and disobedient, I shall surely fall sick and die. Evidently the young girl knew exactly how to work on her faithful old servant's temperament. Ainez reduced to abject contrition by the thought that she was rendering her darling anxious and sick, swore by every saint in the calendar that she would bite off her tongue, toil like a slave, and be as obedient as a cur, if only her darling angel would keep well and cheerful and tell her what to do. You must not fret about me, Ainez, resumed Lenora, as soon as the old woman's valuable apologies and protestations had somewhat subsided. My husband will escort me, as far as Brussels, and in my father's house, little Pepita, will wait on me till you come. And if that flighty wench doesn't look after you properly, began Ainez menacingly, you will make her suffer, I've no doubt, quote Lenora dryly. In the meanwhile, listen carefully, Ainez, for there is something that I want you to do for me which no one else but you can do, for which the Lord be thanked, said Ainez fervently. What is it, my dear? This letter, she said, Yes, I want Mr. Lawrence van Rijk to have it after I have gone. He shall have it, my saint. He may be from home. I shall find him. He must have it before midday. He shall have it. Promise, I'll swear it. The old woman took the letter with the ring, which her mistress held out to her, and then only did Lenora feel that she had done all that lay in her power to reconcile her duty to her king with her sentiment for those who had been kind to her. How Lenora spent the rest of the long, weary sum, interminable morning she never afterwards could have told you, the very atmosphere around her oppressed her well-nigh unbearably, there were the farewells to be said to the family, to the High Bailiff, who was apologetic and obsequious, to Clemence, who cried, and to Lawrence, who looked sadly inquiring and reproachful. Fortunately, Mark had paved the way for these farewells in his usual airy and irresponsible manner. It was the Spanish custom, so he had assured his mother that Brides, after spending twenty-four hours under their husband's roof, returned to their parents or guardians for a few weeks. Clemence had smiled incredulously when she had heard this, but had allowed herself a non to be persuaded. There were such queer marriage customs in different parts of the world these days. Why, in many parts of Germany, the bridegroom was, according to tradition, soundly thrashed by his friends directly after the religious ceremony. It was in order that he should be prepared for the many vicissitudes of cannubial life, and there were other equally strange customs in foreign lands. Spain was a curious country Clemence was prepared to admit, and, well, perhaps it was all for the best. She had been attracted by the beautiful girl, whom, indeed, a cruel fate seemed to have tossed into the very midst of a family with whom she had absolutely nothing in common. Clemence had been sorry for her in her gentle motherly way, but she had mistrusted her, and just now all Clemence's thoughts were centered on her country's wrongs, on the great fight for political and religious liberty which had received so severe a blow, and which the noble Prince of Orange was still determined to carry on with the help of God. And so, though Clemence cried a little, and though her kind heart ate for the young girl who looked so pathetic and so forlorn when she bade her goodbye, she nevertheless felt a sense of relief when she remembered all that had been talked of and planned in this house last night, and thought of the packet of papers which were locked away with her most precious jewels, she kissed the girl tenderly and spoke of the happy day when she would come back to her new home never to leave it again. Lenora pale like a young ghost with dark rings under her eyes and lips that quivered with the sobs she was vainly trying to suppress made an effort to respond, and then hurried out of the room, but when she saw Lawrence he was alone in the hall and she contrived to whisper to him, you remember the ring? He nodded eagerly. I shall soon send it to you, she said, and ask you to do something for my sake. Command me, he implored, and it shall be done. Then at last the farewells were all spoken, and Lenora and her husband started on their way. It had rained in torrents all the morning, therefore departure was delayed until long past midday. The wagons for the effects were to be round almost immediately, but their progress would be very slow owing to the bad state of the roads. The road between Ghent and Brussels runs parallel with the shelled for the first two or three leagues. The river had overflowed its banks, and in places the road was so deep underwater that the horses sank in it almost up to their bellies. Everywhere it was fetlock deep in mud, and more like a plowed field than a chasse owing to the continual passage recently of cavalry and artillery. Mark and Lenora were traveling alone, which was distinctly unseemly in a lady of her rank, but the distance was not great, and Ines had to be left behind to finish up the packing, whilst Mark refused to take a serving man with him, declaring that the roads were perfectly safe now and free from footpads, and that they would surely be in Brussels before nightfall. Lenora, who was an absolute stranger in the country and did not know one Flemish town from another and who, moreover, had done the journey from Brussels to Ghent ten days ago in a covered coach drawn by four horses, was ready to accept any suggestion or any itinerary with the blindness of ignorance. She hardly noticed that they seemed to be making very slow progress, nor that the sky which had cleared up brilliantly in the early part of the afternoon was once more heavily overcast. Mark at first had made one or two attempts at cheerful conversation, but since Lenora only answered in monosyllables he too relapsed into silence after a while. The flat monotonous country sodden with rain looked unspeakably dreary to the girl accustomed to the snow-clad vistas of the Sierras and the blue skies of Castile. As they left Ghent further and further behind them the country bore traces of the terrible ravages of Alva's relentless occupation. Poverty and wretchedness were writ largely upon every tiny village or hamlet which they passed. Everywhere the houses bore a miserable and forlorn aspect with broken chimneys and shattered roofs, trees cut down to make way for the passage of cavalry or merely for the supplying of firewood for Alva's army. In the little town of Wetteran through which they passed the houses looked deserted and dilapidated. The people looked ill-clad and sullen, and as they crossed the marketplace a crowd of beggars, men, women and children in miserable rags flocked around their horses' heels begging for alms. So much had Spanish occupation done for this proud country which only a very few years ago had boasted that not one of its children ever lacked clothing or food. Tears of pity gathered in Lenora's eyes. She, of course, did not know that the misery which she witnessed was due to her people, to her country and to her king, and in no small measure to her father. She gave the poor folk money and said kindly words of compassion to them. Then she turned to Mark. It is dreadful, she said naively, to see so much misery in the land when our sovereign Lord the King does so much for its welfare. It is these wretched internal dissensions, I suppose, that are ruining the country. Surely all those abominable rebels must see that their obstinacy and treachery redounds upon their own kith and kin. They ought to see that oughtn't they, was Mark's dry and curt comment, and Lenora, chilled by such strange indifference, once more relapsed into her former silence. When they neared the walls of Dendermond, Mark announced that his horse had cast a shoe. He dismounted, and leading his horse by the bridle he advanced to the city gate. Here, however, both he and Lenora were summarily stopped by a young provost who demanded to see their papers of identification, their traveling permits, and their permit to enter this fortified city. To Lenora's astonishment, Mark, who was always so good-humored and placid, became violent and abusive at this formality imposed upon him. It was in no way different to those which the municipality of Ghent would have enjoined on any stranger who desired to enter the city. These had been rendered necessary by the many stringent edicts formulated by the Lieutenant Governor against the harboring of rebels in fortified towns, and all law-abiding citizens were in consequence obliged to provide themselves with the necessary passes and permits whenever they desired to travel. Lenora, whose ignorance of every law, every formality, every duty imposed upon this once free and proud country by its Spanish masters, was unbounded, could not quite understand why her husband, who was the son of a high civic dignitary, had not taken care that all his papers were in order. Before he embarked upon this journey, it surely had been his duty to do that in order to save himself and his wife from the humiliation of being thus held up at a city gate by an insolent provost who had the power to make his authority felt and was not sparing of abuse of loudish Netherlanders who were willfully ignorant of the law, or else impudent enough to flout it. An unpleasant quarrel between the two men would undoubtedly have ensued and would inevitably have ended in disaster for Mark, but for the intervention of Lenora, who spoke to the provost in Spanish. I am this noble gentleman's wife, she said, haughtily in response to an insolent look from the young soldier, and the daughter of Signor Juan de Vargas, who will make you responsible, Sera, for any inconvenience you may cause me. At mention of the all-powerful and dreaded name, the provost's manner immediately underwent a change. At the same time he was not prepared to accept the statement quite so unconditionally as Laura had supposed. This noble gentleman, he retorted half sullenly, hath no papers whereby I can verify the truth of what he asserts. He has none whereby he can prove to me that he is the son of the High Bailiff of Ghent and that you are his wife and the daughter of Don Juan de Vargas. You have my word for both these assertions, you accursed fool, exclaimed Mark haughtily, and I'll make you rue your insolence, you dog of a netherlander, retorted the provost, and teach you how to treat a soldier of the king. Mark, I entreat you, not in my presence, broke in Lenora hastily, for she saw that her husband, apparently beside himself with rage, was about to commit one of those foolish and purposeless acts of violence which would have resulted for them both in a veritable chaplet of unpleasantness, imprisonment in a guard room, bringing up before a sheriff interrogations, abuse, and insults, until the High Bailiff or her father could be communicated with a matter probably of two or three days dependent on the goodwill of the very sheriff before whom they would appear. It was positively unthinkable. Lenora could not understand how Mark could be so foolish as to lose his temper when he was so obviously in the wrong, nor how he could have been so thoughtless in the matter of the papers. She managed by dint of tactful speech and the power of her beautiful personality to pacify the wrath of the provost, and to have persuade him to believe her assertion that she was indeed the daughter of Don Juan de Vargas. At any rate, the young soldier was by now sufficiently impressed by the sound of that dreaded name to decline any further responsibility in this difficult matter. He allowed the travelers to pass through the city gates and to remain within the city for two hours, he added significantly. If you wish to stay the night, you must obtain permission from the shout. Mark eased his temper by muttering a few more implications under his breath, then he seemed content and somewhat pacified, and finally led Lenora's horse and his own quietly through the inner fortifications and fence across the flax market to the grand place. Mark established his young wife in the inglenook of the Taperidge in the highly respectable tavern of the Mary Beggars opposite the Cloth Hall. He enjoined the host and hostess to take every care of the noble lady, and then he went off himself in search of a farrier. Fortunately at this hour, it was just three o'clock in the afternoon, the Taperidge was practically deserted. In one corner by the window two middle-aged burgers were playing hazard, and another a soldier was fast asleep. Mine host was passing kind. He brought a roomy armchair up to the hearth for the pretty lady, threw a fresh log upon the fire, kicked it into a blaze, and placed a footstool at Lenora's feet. His wife, a buxom though sad-eyed, Flemish row, brought her some warm milk and a piece of wheat and bread. Lenora ate and drank with relish, for she was both hungry and tired, and when she had finished eating she leaned back in the big armchair and soon fell comfortably asleep. She had practically no rest the night before. Her nerves were overstrong, and her eyes hot with weeping. There was also a heavy load on her heart, a load chiefly weighted by the packet which was destined for her father and which she still carried carefully hidden in the bosom of her gown. So strange are the contradictions of the human heart, of a woman's heart above all, that off times today as her horse ambled slowly along beside Marx she had caught herself wishing, hoping that something unforeseen would occur which would make it impossible for her to go to Brussels, something which would force her to go back to Ghent with the contents of that packet still a close secret within her heart. In the morning she had watched the skies anxiously, hardly aware that within her innermost soul she was hoping that the continuous rains had made the roads impossible, broken down a bridge, that some sign in fact would come to her from God that she was absolved from that awful oath, the fulfillment of which seemed indeed an impossible task. Then would come a terrible revulsion of feeling. She would remember that the Prince of Orange was even now in Ghent with two thousand men who were to be armed by him so that they might fight against their king and threaten the life of the lieutenant governor, the king's own chosen representative, and she would hate and despise herself for her cowardly irresolution. Her very prayer to God appeared like blasphemy, and she wanted to urge the horses forward. She fretted at every delay, for delay might mean the murder of the Duke of Alva and the standard of rebellion hoisted up in triumph above the townhouse of Ghent. Women will understand and pity her, those at least, who once in their life have been torn, tweaked duty and sentiment. Lenora was not one of the strong minded of her sex. She was very young, a mere girl reared in the tranquility of convent life, and then suddenly thrown into the vortex of political intrigue, of cruel reprisals and bitter revolt. And heart and mind within her fought a terrible battle which threatened to ruin her entire life. But in the meanwhile she was sorely in need of rest. The tapirage was so quiet, and the inglenook was rendered quite private by a tall screen between it and the rest of the room. The soldier in the corner was snoring with insistent monotony. A big blue bottle droned against the window, and a pleasing glow and cheerful crackling came from the fire in the hearth. Lenora slept peacefully. End of chapter 9