Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  She had meant to cut short the discussion without rousing anger again, but she could have taken no worse way to destroy whatever was left of her father’s kindlier mood. He did not raise his voice now, as he followed her and spoke.

  “You refuse to do that?” he said, with an already ominous interrogation in his tone.

  “You ask the impossible,” she answered, without looking round. “I have not refused, for I have no will in this, no choice. You can do what you please with me, for you have power over my outward life — and if you lacked it, the King would help you. But you have no power beyond that, neither over my heart nor over my soul. I love him — I have loved him long, and I shall love him till I die, and beyond that, forever and ever, beyond everything — beyond the great to-morrow of God’s last judgment! How can I put him out of my thoughts, then? It is madness to ask it of me.”

  She paused a moment, while he stood behind her, getting his teeth and slowly grinding the heel of one heavy boot on the pavement.

  “And as for threatening me,” she continued, “you will not kill Don John, nor even try to kill him, for he is the King’s brother. If I can see him this evening, I will — and there will be no risk for him. You would not murder him by stealth, I suppose? No! Then you will not attack him at all, and if I can see him, I will — I tell you so, frankly. To-morrow or the next day, when the festivities they have for him are over, and you yourself are at liberty, take me to Las Huelgas, if you will, and with as little scandal as possible. But when I am there, set a strong guard of armed men to keep me, for I shall escape unless you do. And I shall go to Don John. That is all I have to say. That is my last word.”

  “I gave you mine, and it was my word of honour,” said Mendoza. “If Don John tries to enter here, to see you, I will kill him. To-morrow, you shall go to Las Huelgas.”

  Dolores made no answer and did not even turn her head. He left her and went out. She heard his heavy tread in the hall beyond, and she heard a bolt slipped at the further door. She was imprisoned for the night, for the entrance her father had fastened was the one which cut off the portion of the apartment in which the sisters lived from the smaller part which he had reserved for himself. These rooms, from which there was no other exit, opened, like the sitting-room, upon the same hall.

  When Dolores knew that she was alone, she drew back from the window and shut it. It had served its purpose as a sort of refuge from her father, and the night air was cold. She sat down to think, and being in a somewhat desperate mood, she smiled at the idea of being locked into her room, supperless, like a naughty child. But her face grew grave instantly as she tried to discover some means of escape. Inez was certainly not in the apartment — she must have gone to the other end of the palace, on pretence of seeing one of the court ladies, but really in the hope of giving Don John the letter. It was more than probable that she would not be allowed to enter when she came back, for Mendoza would distrust her. That meant that Dolores could have no communication with any one outside her rooms during the evening and night, and she knew her father too well to doubt that he would send her to Las Huelgas in the morning, as he had sworn to do. Possibly he would let her serving-woman come to her to prepare what she needed for the journey, but even that was unlikely, for he would suspect everybody.

  The situation looked hopeless, and the girl’s face grew slowly pale as she realized that after all she might not even exchange a word with Don John before going to the convent — she might not even be able to tell him whither they were sending her, and Mendoza might keep the secret for years — and she would never be allowed to write, of course.

  She heard the further door opened again, the bolt running back with a sharp noise. Then she heard her father’s footsteps and his voice calling to Inez, as he went from room to room. But there was no answer, and presently he went away, bolting the door a second time. There could be no more doubt about it now. Dolores was quite alone. Her heart beat heavily and slowly. But it was not over yet. Again the bolt slipped in the outer hall, and again she heard the heavy steps. They came straight towards the door. He had perhaps changed his mind, or he had something more to say; she held her breath, but he did not come in. As if to make doubly sure, he bolted her into the little room, crossed the hall a last time, and bolted it for the night, perfectly certain that Dolores was safely shut off from the outer world.

  For some minutes she sat quite still, profoundly disturbed, and utterly unable to find any way out of her difficulty, which was, indeed, that she was in a very secure prison.

  Then again there was a sound at the door, but very soft this time, not half as loud in her ears as the beating of her own heart. There was something ghostly in it, for she had heard no footsteps. The bolt moved very slowly and gently — she had to strain her ears to hear it move. The sound ceased, and another followed it — that of the door being cautiously opened. A moment later Inez was in the room — turning her head anxiously from side to side to hear Dolores’ breathing, and so to find out where she was. Then as Dolores rose, the blind girl put her finger to her lips, and felt for her sister’s hand.

  “He has the letter,” she whispered quickly. “I found him by accident, very quickly. I am to say to you that after he has been some time in the great hall, he will slip away and come here. You see our father will be on duty and cannot come up.”

  Dolores’ hand trembled violently.

  “He swore to me that he would kill Don John if he came here,” she whispered. “He will do it, if it costs his own life! You must find him again — go quickly, dear, for the love of Heaven!” Her anxiety increased. “Go — go, darling — do not lose a moment — he may come sooner — save him, save him!”

  “I cannot go,” answered Inez, in terror, as she understood the situation. “I had hidden myself, and I am locked in with you. He called me, but I kept quiet, for I knew he would not let me stay.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed aloud in an agony of fear.

  Dolores’ lips were white, and she steadied herself against a chair.

  CHAPTER III

  DOLORES STOOD LEANING against the back of the chair, neither hearing nor seeing her sister, conscious only that Don John was in danger and that she could not warn him to be on his guard. She had not believed herself when she had told her father that he would not dare to lift his hand against the King’s half brother. She had said the words to give herself courage, and perhaps in a rush of certainty that the man she loved was a match for other men, hand to hand, and something more. It was different now. Little as she yet knew of human nature, she guessed without reasoning that a man who has been angry, who has wavered and given way to what he believes to be weakness, and whose anger has then burst out again, is much more dangerous than before, because his wrath is no longer roused against another only, but also against himself. More follies and crimes have been committed in that second tide of passion than under a first impulse. Even if Mendoza had not fully meant what he had said the first time, he had meant it all, and more, when he had last spoken. Once more the vision of fear rose before Dolores’ eyes, nobler now; because it was fear for another and not for herself, but therefore also harder to conquer.

  Inez had ceased from sobbing now, and was sitting quietly in her accustomed seat, in that attitude of concentrated expectancy of sounds which is so natural to the blind, that one can almost recognize blindness by the position of the head and body without seeing the face. The blind rarely lean back in a chair; more often the body is quite upright, or bent a little forward, the face is slightly turned up when there is total silence, often turned down when a sound is already heard distinctly; the knees are hardly ever crossed, the hands are seldom folded together, but are generally spread out, as if ready to help the hearing by the sense of touch — the lips are slightly parted, for the blind know that they hear by the mouth as well as with their ears — the expression of the face is one of expectation and extreme attention, still, not placid, calm, but the very contrary of indifferent. It was thus that Inez sat,
as she often sat for hours, listening, always and forever listening to the speech of things and of nature, as well as for human words. And in listening, she thought and reasoned patiently and continually, so that the slightest sounds had often long and accurate meanings for her. The deaf reason little or ill, and are very suspicious; the blind, on the contrary, are keen, thoughtful, and ingenious, and are distrustful of themselves rather than of others. Inez sat quite still, listening, thinking, and planning a means of helping her sister.

  But Dolores stood motionless as if she were paralyzed, watching the picture that «he could not chase away. For she saw the familiar figure of the man she loved coming down the gloomy corridor, alone and unarmed, past the deep embrasures through which the moonlight streamed, straight towards the oak door at the end; and then, from one of the windows another figure stood out, sword in hand, a gaunt man with a grey beard, and there were few words, and an uncertain quick confounding of shadows with a ray of cold light darting hither and thither, then a fall, and then stillness. As soon as it was over, it began again, with little change, save that it grew more distinct, till she could see Don John’s white face in the moonlight as he lay dead on the pavement of the corridor.

  It became intolerable at last, and she slowly raised one hand and covered her eyes to shut out the sight.

  “Listen,” said Inez, as Dolores stirred. “I have been thinking. You must see him to-night, even if you are not alone with him. There is only one way to do that; you must dress yourself for the court and go down to the great hall with the others and speak to him — then you can decide how to meet to-morrow.”

  “Inez — I have not told you the rest! To-morrow I am to be sent to Las Huelgas, and kept there like a prisoner.” Inez uttered a low cry of pain.

  “To a convent!” It seemed like death.

  Dolores began to tell her all Mendoza had said, but Inez soon interrupted her. There was a dark flush in the blind girl’s face.

  “And he would have you believe that he loves you?” she cried indignantly. “He has always been hard, and cruel, and unkind, he has never forgiven me for being blind — he will never forgive you for being young! The King! The King before everything and every one — before himself, yes, that is well, but before his children, his soul, his heart — he has no heart! What am I saying—” She stopped short.

  “And yet, in his strange way, he loves us both,” said Dolores. “I cannot understand it, but I saw his face when there were tears in his eyes, and I heard his voice. He would give his life for us.”

  “And our lives, and hearts, and hopes to feed his conscience and to save his own soul!”

  Inez was trembling with anger, leaning far forward, her face flushed, one slight hand clenched, the other clenching it hard. Dolores was silent. It was not the first time that Inez had spoken in this way, for the blind girl could be suddenly and violently angry for a good cause. But now her tone changed.

  “I will save you,” she said suddenly, “but there is no time to be lost. He will not come back to our rooms now, and he knows well enough that Don John cannot come here at this hour, so that he is not waiting for him. We have this part of the place to ourselves, and the outer door only is bolted now. It will take you an hour to dress — say three-quarters of an hour. As soon as you get out, you must go quickly round the palace to the Duchess Alvarez. Our father will not go there, and you can go down with her, as usual — but tell her nothing. Our father will be there, and he will see you, but he will not care to make an open scandal in the court. Don John will come and speak to you; you must stay beside the Duchess of course — but you can manage to exchange a few words.”

  Dolores listened intently, and her face brightened a little as Inez went on, only to grow sad and hopeless again a moment later. It was all an impossible dream.

  “That would be possible if I could once get beyond the door of the hall,” she said despondently. “It is of no use, dear! The door is bolted.”

  “They will open it for me. Old Eudaldo is always within hearing, and he will do anything for me. Besides, I shall seem to have been shut in by mistake, do you see? I shall say that I am hungry, thirsty, that I am cold, that in locking you in our father locked me in, too, because I was asleep. Then Eudaldo will open the door for me. I shall say that I am going to the Duchess’s.”

  “Yes — but then?”

  “You will cover yourself entirely with my black cloak and draw it over your head and face. We are of the same height — you only need to walk as I do — as if you were blind — across the hall to the left. Eudaldo will open the outer door for you. You will just nod to thank him, without speaking, and when you are outside, touch the wall of the corridor with your left hand, and keep close to it. I always do, for fear of running against some one. If you meet any of the women, they will take you for me. There is never much light in the corridor, is there? There is one oil lamp half way down, I know, for I always smell it when I pass in the evening.”

  “Yes, it is almost dark there — it is a little lamp. Do you really think this is possible?”

  “It is possible, not sure. If you hear footsteps in the corridor beyond the corner, you will have time to slip into one of the embrasures. But our father will not come now. He knows that Don John is in his own apartments with many people. And besides, it is to be a great festival to-night, and all the court people and officers, and the Archbishop, and all the rest who do not live in the palace will come from the city, so that our father will have to command the troops and give orders for the guards to march out, and a thousand things will take his time. Don John cannot possibly come here till after the royal supper, and if our father can come away at all, it will be at the same time. That is the danger.”

  Dolores shivered and saw the vision in the corridor again.

  “But if you are seen talking with Don John before supper, no one will suppose that in order to meet him you would risk coming back here, where you are sure to be caught and locked up again. Do you see?”

  “It all depends upon whether I can get out,” answered Dolores, but there was more hope in her tone. “How am I to dress without a maid?” she asked suddenly.

  “Trust me,” said Inez, with a laugh. “My hands are better than a serving-woman’s eyes. You shall look as you never looked before. I know every lock of your hair, and just how it should be turned and curled and fastened in place so that it cannot possibly get loose. Come, we are wasting time. Take off your slippers as I have done, so that no one shall hear us walking through the hall to your room, and bring the candles with you if you choose — yes, you need them to pick out the colours you like.”

  “If you think it will be safer in the dark, it does not matter,” said Dolores. “I know where everything is.”

  “It would be safer,” answered Inez thoughtfully. “It is just possible that he might be in the court and might see the light in your window, whereas if it burns here steadily, he will suspect nothing. We will bolt the door of this room, as I found it. If by any possibility he comes back, he will think you are still here, and will probably not come in.”

  “Pray Heaven he may not!” exclaimed Dolores, and she began to go towards the door.

  Inez was there before her, opening it very cautiously.

  “My hands are lighter than yours,” she whispered.

  They both passed out, and Inez slipped the bolt back into its place with infinite precaution.

  “Is there light here?” she asked under her breath.

  “There is a very small lamp on the table. I can just see my door.”

  “Put it out as we pass,” whispered Inez. “I will lead you if you cannot find your way.”

  They moved cautiously forward, and when they reached the table, Dolores bent down to the small wick and blew out the flame. Then she felt her sister’s hand taking hers and leading her quickly to the other door. The blind girl was absolutely noiseless in her movements, and Dolores had the strange impression that she was being led by a spirit through the darkness. Inez
stopped a moment, and then went slowly on; they had entered the room though Dolores had not heard the door move, nor did she hear it closed behind her again. Her own room was perfectly dark, for the heavy curtain that covered the window was drawn; she made a step alone, and cautiously, and struck her knee against a chair.

  “Do not move,” whispered Inez. “You will make a noise. I can dress you where you stand, or if you want to find anything, I will lead you to the place where it is. Remember that it is always day for me.”

  Dolores obeyed, and stood still, holding her breath a little in her intense excitement. It seemed impossible that Inez could do all she promised without making a mistake, and Dolores would not have been a woman had she not been visited just then by visions of ridicule. Without light she was utterly helpless to do anything for herself, and she had never before then fully realized the enormous misfortune with which her sister had to contend. She had not guessed, either, what energy and quickness of thought Inez possessed, and the sensation of being advised, guided, and helped by one she had always herself helped and protected was new.

  They spoke in quick whispers of what she was to wear and of how her hair was to be dressed, and Inez found what was wanted without noise, and almost as quickly as Dolores could have done in broad daylight, and placed a chair for her, making her sit down in it, and began to arrange her hair quickly and skilfully. Dolores felt the spiritlike hands touching her lightly and deftly in the dark — they were very slight and soft, and did not offend her with a rough movement or a wrong turn, as her maid’s sometimes did. She felt her golden hair undone, and swiftly drawn out and smoothed without catching, or tangling, or hurting her at all, in a way no woman had ever combed it, and the invisible hands gently divided it, and turned it upon her head, slipping the hairpins into the right places as if by magic, so that they were firm at the first trial, and there was a faint sound of little pearls tapping each other, and Dolores felt the small string laid upon her hair and fastened in its place, — the only ornament a young girl could wear for a headdress, — and presently it was finished, and Inez gave a sigh of satisfaction at her work, and lightly felt her sister’s head here and there to be sure that all was right. It felt as if soft little birds were just touching the hair with the tips of their wings as they fluttered round it. Dolores had no longer any fear of looking ill dressed in the blaze of light she was to face before long. The dressing of her hair was the most troublesome part, she knew, and though she could not have done it herself, she had felt that every touch and turn had been perfectly skilful.