She was a little startled and looked around her, puzzled and anxious.
The room had looked so light and cheerful when she had entered it--two large bow windows gave on the Grand" Place--and the weather had remained clear and bright. But now it seemed so dark, almost as if twilight was fading fast.
"What hour is it?" she questioned, and looked about her anxiously for a clock.
"I do not know," he replied airily.
"But your horse?"
"Still at the farrier"s: he was busy and could not shoe her at once."
"But I am sure that it must be getting late," she said with a sudden note of anxiety in her voice.
"Very late, I am afraid," he said lightly.
"Then should we not be starting for Brussels?"
"We cannot. I have no horse."
"You can hire one, surely?"
"Not in this town."
"But I must be in Brussels by nightfall," she urged.
"I am afraid that this is impossible in any case. The powers that reign supreme in this town would not--if you remember--allow us into it, and now they will not allow us out."
"But that is impossible," she exclaimed, "monstrous!..."
"Monstrous, as you say, Madonna," he rejoined with a smile. "But do you feel equal to scaling the city walls?"
"Oh!"
"I fear me that that would be the only thing to do, if indeed you desire to be in Brussels this night ... and even then, I doubt but that they would bring us back."
"Then, Messire," she asked, trying to appear as calm, as detached, as he seemed to be, "do you mean to tell me that we must spend the night--here?"
"It is a pretty city..." he suggested.
"That we cannot now start for Brussels?"
"Impossible. The Schout of Dendermonde hath refused to allow us out of this city until we have proved to his satisfaction that we are neither spies of the Prince of Orange, nor emissaries of the Queen of England."
"You should have seen to it, Messire," she said haughtily, "that all our papers were in order. This is an exceedingly mortifying and unpleasant contretemps."
"I did not know the French word for it, Madonna," he rejoined with exasperating good-humour, "but I know that it must be somewhat unpleasant ... for you."
She tried to meet his glance, without that tell-tale blush spreading immediately over her cheeks: and she could have cried with vexation when she saw that the merry twinkle was more apparent in his grey eyes than it had been since their wedding day.
"I believe," she said slowly, "that you, Messire, have devised this scheme from beginning to end. You neglected your papers purposely--purposely you quarrelled with the provost at the gate--purposely you have caused me to be detained in this miserable city...."
"A pretty city, Madonna," he interposed imperturbably, "the church was built three hundred years ago ... the Cloth Hall..."
"And now you are impertinent," she declared hotly.
"Impertinent," he said quietly, even though the merry, gently mocking glance still lingered in his eyes, "impertinent because I decline to look on the present situation as a tragedy? How can I do that, Madonna, since it gives me the opportunity of spending an evening alone with you?"
"You might have done that yesterday and saved me much humiliation," she retorted.
"Yesterday I was a fool, Madonna," he said. "To-day I have become a wise man."
"What hath changed you?"
"Ten minutes of your company in the dining-hall last night."
She made no reply, glad enough that at this moment twilight was already fading into dusk. In the ingle-nook where they sat, there was hardly any light now save the glow of the fire. Anon the buxom, sad-eyed hostess came in carrying a lamp which she placed on one of the tables in the _tapperij_. She seemed to know--by that subtle instinct which pertains to every woman"s heart--that the seignior and his n.o.ble lady did not wish to be disturbed. This was not the busy hour at the hostel: in about an hour"s time, the soldiers off duty would be coming in, and the shopkeepers from their shops after their day"s work; but just now there was no one, so the kindly old soul having so placed the lamp that a beneficent shadow still enveloped the ingle-nook, quietly tip-toed out of the room.
II
Several minutes went by before Lenora was able to shake off the curious torpor which had fallen over her senses: nor could she in any way account for the sweet feeling of well-being which accompanied it. She had made no reply to Mark"s last words, nor did she make any now. She lay back in her chair with eyes half closed, feeling, knowing that he was looking at her unceasingly, with that intent, searching gaze of his which she had encountered once or twice before. She felt as if he were trying to reach her very soul--he, the careless ne"er-do-well, the dissolute frequenter of taverns--what did he care for a woman"s soul?
And yet it seemed impossible for Lenora at this moment to disguise from that searching gaze all those terrible conflicts which had literally been tearing her heart asunder in the past few hours--nay, more! it seemed as if the very letter which lay inside the folds of her kerchief addressed to her father must be lying open before her husband"s eyes and that he was reading it even now.
The feeling became akin to a sweet obsession, and gradually she allowed her senses to yield themselves to its soothing influence. After all had she not been sure that sooner or later G.o.d would make His will manifest to her? had she not prayed for guidance? had she not hoped all the morning that something would prevent her journey to Brussels? Content to leave everything in G.o.d"s hands she had yet hoped that G.o.d would point the way to which her own heart was tending.
And now, circ.u.mstances had suddenly occurred which did impede the journey--the horse had cast a shoe, the provost at the gate had proved officious, the hour had slipped by and no horse was forthcoming.
Given the absolute simplicity of the girl"s religious thoughts, her upbringing, the superst.i.tion which underlay all beliefs in the old tenets of the Church during this period of stress and struggle through which she was groping her way through darkness into light: given Lenora"s pure nature and the proud humility which accepted unquestioningly all the commands of those whom she had been taught to reverence, was it to be wondered at that while she was quite ready to do her duty, she should nevertheless hope and think that she had at last received a distinct, supernatural sign that her journey to Brussels was not one of those decrees of G.o.d before which everything on earth must bow and every obstacle be removed?
But even then--in spite of her wishes and her hopes--she fought on to the last and refused to yield to the sweet, insistent call of peace and of sentiment. What she took to be a sign from G.o.d might easily be an insidious machination of the devil. There was a quaint look of gentle amus.e.m.e.nt in Mark"s eyes, which was certainly disquieting, and it was just possible that it was he who had--wittingly or unwittingly--a.s.sumed the role of a guiding Providence in the matter.
Therefore she steeled her heart against those subtle whisperings which seemed to lure her on every side to give up the fight, to allow herself to drift on the soothing wave which even now was carrying her to a haven, where all was peace and quietude and where there was neither strife nor intrigue.
"Messire," she said abruptly and as repellently as she could, "I pray you enlighten mine ignorance. How many cowardly deeds of this sort stand to your discredit?"
He smiled quite unperturbed: "You think me an adept?" he asked quietly.
"You are not ashamed?" she retorted.
"Not in the least. What have I done?"
"Insulted me at every turn," she said very calmly. "What is this detention---here, alone with you, in this strange town, away even from the protection of my own serving wench--what is it but an insult? You have shown me plainly enough, by every means in your power, that you had no liking for me. Even last night..."
She paused because tears of humiliation--which she would have given worlds not to shed--would come to her eyes, and her voice shook in spite of every effort which she made at self-control.
"Madonna," he entreated, and suddenly he was quite close to her, with one knee almost touching the ground, "as you are beautiful, so will you not be merciful to a miserable wretch, who hath been sorely perplexed by all the disdain which you have so generously lavished upon him?"