And Chance, Fate or its own elusive nature drove it relentlessly away.
III
How peaceful was the sleepy little town at this moment when dusk finallyfaded into night!
The tower bells of the Cloth Hall chimed the sixth hour: outside on theGrand' Place all had been still save for the occasional footstep of apasser-by or the measured tramp of a company of halberdiers on duty.
And now suddenly that peace was broken, the quietude of the towndisturbed by piercing woman's shrieks, followed by shouts and cursesuttered loudly by a rough, masculine voice.
Mark instinctively jumped to his feet; the cries had become pitiable andwere multiplied by others which seemed to come from children's throats,and the shouts and curses became more peremptory and more rough.
"What is it?" asked Lenora, not a little frightened.
"Oh! the usual thing," replied Mark hastily, "a woman insulted in thestreets, vain protests, rough usage, outrage and probably murder. Weare used to such incidents in Flanders," he added quietly.
Already he was half way across the _tapperij_.
"You are going?" she queried anxiously, "whither?"
"Out into the street," he said, "can you not hear that a woman is indistress?"
"But what can you do?" she urged, "the soldiers are there ... you cannotinterfere ... you, a Netherlander...."
"Yes! I, a Netherlander," he said. "It is a Flemish woman who iscalling for help now."
He turned to go, and she--with the same instinct that was movinghim--rose too and followed him:--the same instinct of protection:his--the man's for the woman who was in distress: hers--the woman's forthe man who would pit his strength alone against superior numbers. Sheovertook him just as he reached the threshold of the _tapperij_. Beyondit was only the porch, the door of which stood wide open, and beyondthat the Grand' Place; the shrieks and the ever-increasing noise of ascuffle came from an adjacent street close by.
"You must not go, Messire," she said insistently, as with both hands sheclung to his arms, "what can you do? there is a crowd there ... and thesoldiers...."
He smiled and tried very gently to disengage his arm from her clinging,insistent grasp.
"It will not be the first time, Madonna," he said with a light laugh,"that I have had a scuffle with a posse of soldiery ... they sometimesmean no harm," he added reassuringly seeing the look of anxious terrorin her eyes, "many a time has a scuffle ended in jollity at a few wordsof common sense."
"Yes, yes, in Ghent," she urged, "where you are known. But here! ...where no one knows you ... spies of the Inquisition might be about ...if they see you interfering in favour of a heretic or a rebel ... or ...Oh! men have been hanged and burned for lesser crimes than that."
"Ah!" he said looking down with a whimsical smile into her flushed andeager face, "that is part of the benevolent rule which our SovereignLord the King exercises over the Low Countries!"
Then seeing that at his flippant words--through which there rang a noteof intense bitterness--her eyes had suddenly filled with tears, hemurmured tenderly:
"God bless you, Madonna, for your sweet thoughts of me! I pray you letme go! I'll come back soon," he added while a look of triumph flashedup in his eyes, "never fear!"
He ran out quickly into the street.
She hesitated, but only for a second: the next she had followed him,without thought that she had neither hood nor mantle, nor that theunseemliness of her conduct would surely have shocked all the greatladies of Spain.
IV
The Grand' Place was deserted and dark, only here and there in thewindows of the Cloth Hall there was a glimmer of light. For a momentLenora paused in the porch peering out into the gloom, trying to tracewhence came the noise of the scuffle, for Mark had already disappeared:then she ran out swiftly, turning to her right from the porch till shereached the corner of a narrow street. Here an oil lamp fixed into awall by an iron bracket threw a dim circle of light, beyond which theshadows appeared almost impenetrable. It was somewhere in amongst thoseshadows that a melee between shouting soldiers and shrieking women wastaking place.
Up to this moment Lenora had never stopped to reflect as to what shemeant or wanted to do. Blind instinct had driven her in the wake ofMark, feeling that he was in danger--as indeed he was: a Netherlanderthese days was in himself always an object of suspicion, andinterference with Spanish soldiery under any circumstances was indeedlikely to lead him into very grave trouble. If the soldiers werearresting or merely molesting a heretic or a rebel, any one whointerfered with them would at once fall under the searching eye of theInquisition--and there was never a lack of spies on such occasions: the_seven stiver people_--who for that paltry daily sum spent their livesin reporting treason, listening for it in every tavern, and in everyback street of every city.
But now that she stood here at the street corner, hearing theever-increasing noise of the scuffle close by, hearing the shouts, thecries, the pitiable appeals followed by peremptory commands, sherealised how miserably impotent and helpless she was. Yet she couldhear Mark's voice--speaking now in Spanish and now in Flemish, as hetried--obviously--to understand the situation and to plead for those whowere in distress. At first his voice had sounded rough and peremptory:indeed Lenora could not help but marvel at its commanding quality, thengradually it became cheerful, and its tone turned to one of merrybanter. The incident indeed was evidently one of those which, alas!were so usual in the cities and villages of the Low Countries thesedays: two young women coming home down the dark, back streets from somefarm or silk-weaving shop where they had been at work, and a posse ofhalf-drunken soldiers to whom a Flemish peasant was an acknowledged preyfor ribald sport.
The women had resisted and tried to flee: they were pursued and roughhorse-play had ensued: then they had screamed and the men had sworn, andpresently other women and children joined in the scuffle while those whowere wise stayed quietly indoors.
Horse-play had become a matter of blows followed by threats of arrestand dark hints at heresy, rebellion and the Inquisition: the melee wasat its height when Mark interfered. Several blows were still exchangedafter that, and there was a good deal of swearing and mutualobjurgation. Lenora, listening, wondered with what skill Mark graduallymade those curses turn to facetious remarks--ill-natured at first anduncouth--then more light-hearted, and finally grudgingly pleasant.Within five minutes the tumult began to subside: Lenora could hear thewomen weeping and the soldiers laughing quite good-humouredly. How ithad all been done she did not know: presently from the tramping of feetshe gathered that the melee had broken up: a woman's voice said loudly:"_Gott vergelte!_" and Lenora thought that indeed God would repay thelight-hearted man of the world who had by sheer good-humour andcompelling personality turned a drama into pleasing farce.
"Well, friend!" she heard a man's voice saying in Spanish, "I don't knowwho you are, but a right good fellow; an I'm not mistaken. Perhaps itwas wisest to leave those women alone."
"I am sure of it, friend," quoth Mark gaily, "the commandant oft makes ato-do about street-brawling, and you might have been blamed and got twodays' guard-room arrest just for kissing a pair of Flemish wenches. Thegame was not worth the candle. Even the devil would have no profit init."
"Well said, mate," retorted the other lustily, "come and have a mug ofale on it with me and my men at the 'Duke's Head' down yonder."
"Thank you, friend, but I put up at the 'Merry Beggars' and must returnthither now. A little later perhaps."
"At your service, comrade."
There was a pause during which Lenora made up her mind--since all tumultand all danger had passed--to go back to that ingle-nook beside the fireand there to wait till Mark returned ... to wait so that she mightresume with him that conversation of awhile ago which had interested herso much. But on the point of turning she halted. Three words--spoken byone of the soldiers--had come to her out of the gloom, and caused herheart to stop its
beating.
"You are hurt?" one man had said--in a kind, gruff way--evidently indeep concern.
"No! no! it's nothing," Mark replied, "a small scratch ... in thescuffle just now...."
"But you are bleeding...."
"And if I am, friend, it won't be the first time in my life. I tell youit's nothing," added Mark with obvious impatience. "Good-night!"
"Good-night!" came in chorus from the men.
V
The measured tramp of booted feet slowly dying away in the distance downthe narrow street, told Lenora that at last the men had gone.
But Mark was hurt and she stood waiting at the street corner for sheheard his step coming slowly toward her.
He was hurt and had made light of it, but one of the soldiers hadremarked that he was bleeding and she waited now for him, dreading yetvaguely hoping that he was really wounded--oh! only slightly!--but stillwounded so that she might wait on him.
So strange is a woman's heart when first it wakes from the dreams, theunrealities, the fairy-worlds of childhood! With beating heart Lenoralistened to that slowly-advancing footstep--how slow it seemed! as if ithad lost that elasticity which but a few moments ago had carried Markbounding down this same street. Now it dragged and finally came to ahalt, just as Mark's figure emerged into the shaft of light thrown alongthe wall by the street lamp close to which Lenora was standing.
She smothered a little cry and ran forward to meet him, for she had seenhis figure sway, and halt, then lean heavily against the wall.
"You are hurt!" she exclaimed, even before she reached him.
At sound of her voice, he pulled himself together, and in a moment hadstraightened out his shoulders and was walking quite steadily towardher.
"Madonna!" he cried in astonishment, "what are you doing here?"
"Oh! I ... I..." she murmured, a little ashamed now that she met hispleasant, grey eyes fixed so kindly upon her, "I heard the noise ... Ibecame anxious...."
"It was only a street-brawl," he said, "not fit for you to witness."
Even now, though he spoke quite firmly, his voice sounded weary andweak.
"You are hurt!" she reiterated.
"Hurt? No!" He laughed, but the laughter died on his lips: he had tosteady himself against the wall, for a sudden dizziness had seized him.
"I pray you take my arm," she insisted. "Can you walk as far as thetavern?"
"Indeed I can," he retorted, "on my honour 'tis a mere scratch."
"An you'll not take my arm," she said peremptorily, "I'll call forhelp."
"Heaven forbid!" he exclaimed gaily. "I should be laughed at for amalingerer. Shall we return to the tavern, Madonna? and will you nottake mine arm?"
He held his right arm out to her, but as he did so she noticed that hekept the other behind his back.
She did take his arm, however. It was obviously best--since he was moreseverely hurt than he cared to admit--to go at once back to the tavern,and dress the wound there with water and clean linen.
They walked in silence side by side. It was only a matter of an hundredyards or so, and after a very few moments they reached the porch of the"Merry Beggars," and as the buxom hostess was standing there, vaguelywondering what had happened to her guests, Lenora at once despatched heroff for a basin of clean warm water and her very softest linen towels.
Then she went into the _tapperij_, and Mark followed her.
The room was as peaceful, as deserted as it had been awhile ago. Thehost himself had in the interval made up the fire, and it was blazingbrightly, lighting up the little ingle-nook, with the high-backed chairwherein Lenora had sat and the low one drawn so close to it.
Turning to Mark, she noticed that he still kept his left arm resolutelybehind his back.
"Our good hostess won't be long with the water," she said, "in themeanwhile, I pray you let me tend to your wound."
"It was nothing, Madonna, I entreat you," he said with markedimpatience, "a blow from a halberd caught me on the arm. I scarcelyfeel it now."
"Let me see," she commanded.
Then as he made no movement to obey, she--half crying with anxiety, andhalf-laughing with excitement--ran swiftly round him, and in an instantshe had hold, of his left hand, and with gentle pressure compelled himto yield it to her. He tried to struggle, but the pain in his armrendered it somewhat helpless.
"I insist!" she said gently, and clung to his hand supporting thefore-arm as she did so.
"Your sleeve is covered with blood!" she exclaimed.
"It is nothing!" he persisted obstinately.
But for the moment she was the stronger of the two. Short of doing herviolence he could not prevent her from holding his hand with one ofhers, and with the other undoing the buttons at his wrist; then withutmost gentleness she detached the shirt which was sticking to a deep,gaping wound, that stretched from the wrist right up to the elbow.
"Oh! but this is terrible!" she cried. "No blow from a halberd couldhave inflicted such a wound! ... Oh! why does not that woman hurry?" sheadded, whilst tears of vexation and impatience rose to her eyes. Therewas nothing to hand wherewith she could staunch the wound, evenmomentarily--every second was precious!...
"I have a knowledge of such matters," she said gently. "At the conventwe tended on many wounded soldiers, when they came to us hurt from thewars. This is no fresh wound, Messire," she added slowly, "but an oldand very severe one, dealt not so very long ago ... by a daggerprobably, which tore the flesh and muscle right deeply to the bone ...it had not healed completely ... the blow from the halberd caused it toreopen ... and..."
But the next words remained frozen on her lips: even whilst she spokeshe had gradually felt a deathlike feeling--like an icy hand grippingher heart and tearing at its strings. An awful dizziness seized her.She looked up--still holding Mark's hand--and gazed straight into hisface. He too was as pale as the dead ashes in the grate--his whole facehad become wax-like in its rigidity, only his eyes remained alive andglowing, fixed into her own now with a look which held a world ofemotion in its depths: passionate tenderness and mute appeal, an avowaland a yearning and with it all an infinity of despair.
And she, thus looking into that face which only lived through the eyes,saw all around her the narrow white-washed walls of the _tapperij_fading away into darkness. In their stead she saw a narrow passage, darkand gloomy, and in its remotest and darkest corner a figure cowered,clad in dark clothes from head to foot and wearing a mask of leatherupon its face--the assassin waiting for his prey. And she sawRamon--handsome, light-hearted, debonnaire Ramon--her kinsman and herlover, standing unsuspecting by. She saw it all--the picture as herfather had painted it for her edification. The assassin lying inwait--Ramon unsuspecting. She saw the murder committed there in thedark, the stealthy, surreptitious blow. She saw Ramon totter andfall--but before falling turn on the dastardly murderer, and with handalready half paralysed by oncoming death, deal him a deep and gashingwound ... in the left fore-arm ... with his dagger which tore flesh andmuscle between elbow and wrist right through to the bone.
And while she looked straight into his eyes and yet saw nothing but thevision of that awful deed, her lips murmured automatically the fouraccusing words:
"Then it was you!"
He had not for one second lost his hold upon himself, since that awfulmoment when he realised that she guessed. He had no idea that don Ramon,at the point of death, had spoken of the wound which he had inflicted onthe man who had meted out summary justice to him for his crimes. But nowhe knew that the secret which he would have buried with him in abottomless grave was known to her--to the woman whom he had learned tolove with his whole soul. She knew now, and henceforth they must be notonly strangers but bitter enemies. Nothing--not even perhaps his owndeath--would ever wipe away the sense of utter abhorrence wherewith sheregarded him now. He took his last look of her as one does of oneinfinitely dear, who sinks into the arms of Death.
He drank in every line
of her exquisite face, the child-like contour ofchin and throat, her alabaster-like skin, the exquisite mouth which hewas destined now never to touch with his yearning lips. In this suprememoment, his love for her--only just in its infancy--rose to its fulleffulgence; he knew now that he worshipped her, and knew that neverwhile the shadow of her dead kinsman stood between them would he holdher in his arms.
"Then it was you!" she murmured again, and with those fateful wordspronounced his condemnation and her own indomitable hate.
"Madonna," he entreated, speaking with the infinite tenderness and pitywhich filled his heart, "will you deign to listen, if I try to pleadmine own cause?"
But no look of softness came into her eyes: they were glowing and dryand unseeing: she did not see him--not Mark, her husband as he stoodthere now before her--she saw him cowering in a dark corner, clad insombre clothes and wearing a leather mask--she saw him with anassassin's dagger in his hand and she saw Ramon lying dead at his feet.
"Then it was you!" she said for the third time.
And he bent his head in mute avowal.
For a few seconds longer she stood there, rigid and silent: slowly herfingers opened and his hand which she had held dropped away to his side.A shudder went right through her, she tottered and nearly fell, onlysaving herself by holding on to the corner of the table. He made amovement as if he would try and support her, as if he would put his armsaround her and pillow her against his breast, but with an exclamation ofsupreme loathing, she drew away from him, and with a pitiable cry halfof hatred and wholly of misery, she turned and fled from the room.
Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders Page 18