Having satisfied herself that the other papers in the packet also contained lists of names and brief orders as to place of a.s.sembly, she tied them all up together again with the orange-coloured ribbon. Then she closed the bureau, turned the pa.s.s-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 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 Laurence van Rycke. Perhaps he felt anxious about the papers, and was coming down in order to transfer them to some other place of safety. The supposition 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 defence 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 secrets 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 anon Lenora heard him first draw aside the curtains from before the window, and then proceed to open two of the cas.e.m.e.nts. The window gave on the Nieuwstraate, 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 cas.e.m.e.nts 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 recognised 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 wraith? 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 to-day 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. "Inez 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 draught 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 woollen stuff, which clung closely to his tall figure: he wore no ruff, 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 Inez and others took possession of her mind. She had been told by all and sundry that Mark van Rycke 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 G.o.d guiding her future--and showing her the 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--then 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 wretch, who probably had no thought of rebellion or of heresy, none to Laurence, who loved her, or to Clemence, who had been kind to her. But she despised them--aye! and loathed them, and was grateful to G.o.d 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, mayhap, to be false to her oath through sheer indolence or superacute 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--go back to the dear old convent at Segovia--having done more than a woman"s 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.
VI
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.
"Messire," 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, Messire," 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 Messire Mark van Rycke spent the first day of his marriage in the taverns of Ghent and left his bride to pine in solitude."
"But methought, 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, Messire, 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 overclouded--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 G.o.ds!" 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, Messire, and this despite your protestations of chivalry. I did not seek you, Messire. This marriage was forced upon me. It is ungenerous and cowardly to make me suffer because of it."
"Dastardly and abominable," he a.s.sented gravely. "Indeed, Madonna, you do me far too much honour even to deign 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 deign 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 grate," 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 favourite att.i.tude, 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 marvelled what it was that troubled him.
"There," he asked gaily, "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 honour to accompany you to Brussels."