Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “God in heaven, how I love you — heart of my heart — life of my life — love of my soul!”

  And again he repeated the same words, and many more like them, with little change, because at that moment he had neither thought nor care for anything else in the world, not for life nor death nor kingdom nor glory, in comparison with the woman he loved. He could not hear her answers, for she spoke without words to his heart, hiding her face where she heard it throbbing, while her lips pressed many kisses on the velvet.

  Then, as thought returned, and the first thought was for him, she drew back a little with a quick movement, and looked up to him with frightened and imploring eyes.

  “We must go!” she cried anxiously, in a very low voice. “We cannot stay here. My father is very angry — he swore on his word of honour that he would kill you if you tried to see me to-night!”

  Don John laughed gently, and his eyes brightened. Before she could speak again, he held her close once more, and his kisses were on her cheeks and her eyes, on her forehead and on her hair, and then again upon her lips, till they would have hurt her if she had not loved them so, and given back every one. Then she struggled again, and he loosed his hold.

  “It is death to stay here,” she said very earnestly.

  “It is worse than death to leave you,” he answered. “And I will not,” he added an instant later, “neither for the King, nor for your father, nor for any royal marriage they may try to force upon me.”

  She looked into his eyes for a moment, before she spoke, and there was deep and true trust in her own.

  “Then you must save me,” she said quietly. “He has vowed that I shall be sent to the convent of Las Huelgas to-morrow morning. He locked me into the inner room, but Inez helped me to dress, and I got out under her cloak.”

  She told him in a few words what she had done and had meant to do, in order to see him, and how she had taken his step for her father’s. He listened gravely, and she saw his face harden slowly in an expression she had scarcely ever seen there. When she had finished her story he was silent for a moment.

  “We are quite safe here,” he said at last, “safer than anywhere else, I think, for your father cannot come back until the King goes to supper. For myself, I have an hour, but I have been so surrounded and pestered by visitors in my apartments that I have not found time to put on a court dress — and without vanity, I presume that I am a necessary figure at court this evening. Your father is with Perez, who seems to be acting as master of ceremonies and of everything else, as well as the King’s secretary — they have business together, and the General will not have a moment. I ascertained that, before coming here, or I should not have come at this hour. We are safe from him here, I am sure.”

  “You know best,” answered Dolores, who was greatly reassured by what he said about Mendoza.

  “Let us sit down, then. You must be tired after all you have done. And we have much to say to each other.”

  “How could I be tired now?” she asked, with a loving smile; but she sat down on the stone seat in the embrasure, close to the window.

  It was just wide enough for two to sit there, and Don John took his place beside her, and drew one of her hands silently to him between both his own, and kissed the tips of her fingers a great many times. But he felt that she was watching his face, and he looked up and saw her eyes — and then, again, many seconds passed before either could speak. They were but a boy and girl together, loving each other in the tender first love of early youth, for the victor of the day, the subduer of the Moors, the man who had won back Granada, who was already High Admiral of Spain, and who in some ten months from that time was to win a decisive battle of the world at Lepanto, was a stripling of twenty-three summers — and he had first seen Dolores when he was twenty and she seventeen, and now it was nearly two years since they had met.

  He was the first to speak, for he was a man of quick and unerring determinations that led to actions as sudden as they were bold and brilliant, and what Dolores had told him of her quarrel with her father was enough to rouse his whole energy at once. At all costs she must never be allowed to pass the gates of Las Huelgas. Once within the convent, by the King’s orders, and a close prisoner, nothing short of a sacrilegious assault and armed violence could ever bring her out into the world again. He knew that, and that he must act instantly to prevent it, for he knew Mendoza’s character also, and had no doubt but that he would do what he threatened. It was necessary to put Dolores beyond his reach at once, and beyond the King’s also, which was not an easy matter within the walls of the King’s own palace, and on such a night. Don John had been but little at the court and knew next to nothing of its intrigues, nor of the mutual relations of the ladies and high officers who had apartments in the Alcazar. In his own train there were no women, of course. Dolores’ brother Rodrigo, who had fought by his side at Granada, had begged to be left behind with the garrison, in order that he might not be forced to meet his father. Doña Magdalena Quixada, Don John’s adoptive mother, was far away at Villagarcia. The Duchess Alvarez, though fond of Dolores, was Mistress of the Robes to the young Queen, and it was not to be hoped nor expected that she should risk the danger of utter ruin and disgrace if it were discovered that she had hidden the girl against the King’s wishes. Yet it was absolutely necessary that Dolores should be safely hidden within an hour, and that she should be got out of the palace before morning, and if possible conveyed to Villagarcia. Don John saw in a moment that there was no one to whom he could turn.

  Again he took Dolores’ hand in his, but with a sort of gravity and protecting authority that had not been in his touch the first time. Moreover, he did not kiss her fingers now, and he resolutely looked at the wall opposite him. Then, in a low and quiet voice, he laid the situation before her, while she anxiously listened.

  “You see,” he said at last, “there is only one way left. Dolores, do you altogether trust me?”

  She started a little, and her fingers pressed his hand suddenly.

  “Trust you? Ah, with all my soul!”

  “Think well before you answer,” he said. “You do not quite understand — it is a little hard to put it clearly, but I must. I know you trust me in many ways, to love you faithfully always, to speak truth to you always, to defend you always, to help you with my life when you shall be in need. You know that I love you so, as you love me. Have we not often said it? You wrote it in your letter, too — ah, dear, I thank you for that. Yes, I have read it — I have it here, near my heart, and I shall read it again before I sleep—”

  Without a word, and still listening, she bent down and pressed her lips to the place where her letter lay. He touched her hair with his lips and went on speaking, as she leaned back against the wall again.

  “You must trust me even more than that, my beloved,” he said. “To save you, you must be hidden by some one whom I myself can trust — and for such a matter there is no one in the palace nor in all Madrid — no one to whom I can turn and know that you will be safe — not one human being, except myself.”

  “Except yourself!” Dolores loved the words, and gently pressed his hand.

  “I thank you, dearest heart — but do you know what that means? Do you understand that I must hide you myself, in my own apartments, and keep you there until I can take you out of the palace, before morning?”

  She was silent for a few moments, turning her face away from him. His heart sank.

  “No, dear,” he said sadly, “you do not trust me enough for that — I see it — what woman could?”

  Her hand trembled and started in his, then pressed it hard, and she turned her face quite to him.

  “You are wrong,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “I love you as no man was ever loved by any woman, far beyond all that all words can say, and I shall love you till I die, and after that, for ever — even if I can never be your wife. I love you as no one loves in these days, and when I say that it is as you love me, I mean a thousand fold for every word. I
am not the child you left nearly two years ago. I am a woman now, for I have thought and seen much since then — and I love you better and more than then. God knows, there is enough to see and to learn in this court — that should be hidden deep from honest women’s sight! You and I shall have a heaven on this earth, if God grants that we may be joined together — for I will live for you, and serve you, and smooth all trouble out of your way — and ask nothing of you but your love. And if we cannot marry, then I will live for you in my heart, and serve you with my soul, and pray Heaven that harm may never touch you. I will pray so fervently that God must hear me. And so will you pray for me, as you would fight for me, if you could. Remember, if you will, that when you are in battle for Spain, your sword is drawn for Spain’s honour, and for the honour of every Christian Spanish woman that lives — and for mine, too!”

  The words pleased him, and his free hand was suddenly clenched.

  “You would make cowards fight like wolves, if you could speak to them like that!” he said.

  “I am not speaking to cowards,” she answered, with a loving smile. “I am speaking to the man I love, to the best and bravest and truest man that breathes — and not to Don John of Austria, the victorious leader, but to you, my heart’s love, my life, my all, to you who are good and brave and true to me, as no man ever was to any woman. No—” she laughed happily, and there were tears in her eyes— “no, there are no words for such love as ours.”

  “May I be all you would have me, and much more,” he said fervently, and his voice shook in the short speech.

  “I am giving you all I have, because it is not belief, it is certainty. I know you are all that I say you are, and more too. And I trust you, as you mean it, and as you need my trust to save me. Take me where you will. Hide me in your own room if you must, and bolt and bar it if need be. I shall be as safe with you as I should be with my mother in heaven. I put my hands between yours.”

  Again he heard her sweet low laughter, full of joy and trust, and she laid her hands together between his and looked into his eyes, straight and clear. Then she spoke softly and solemnly.

  “Into your hands I put my life, and my faith, and my maiden honour, trusting them all to you alone in this world, as I trust them to God.”

  Don John held her hands tightly for a moment, still looking into her eyes as if he could see her soul there, giving itself to his keeping. But he swore no great oath, and made no long speech; for a man who has led men to deeds of glory, and against whom no dishonourable thing was ever breathed, knows that his word is good.

  “You shall not regret that you trust me, and you will be quite safe,” he said.

  She wanted no more. Loving as she did, she believed in him without promises, yet she could not always believe that he quite knew how she loved him.

  “You are dearer to me than I knew,” he said presently, breaking the silence that followed. “I love you even more, and I thought it could never be more, when I found you here a little while ago — because you do really trust me.”

  “You knew it,” the said, nestling to him. “But you wanted me to tell you. Yes — we are nearer now.”

  “Far nearer — and a world more dear,” he answered. “Do you know? In all these months I have often and often again wondered how we should meet, whether it would be before many people, or only with your sister Inez there — or perhaps alone. But I did not dare hope for that.”

  “Nor I. I have dreamt of meeting you a hundred times — and more than that! But there was always some one in the way. I suppose that if we had found each other in the court and had only been able to say a few words, it would have been a long time before we were quite ourselves together — but now, it seems as if we had never been parted at all, does it not?”

  “As if we could never be parted again,” he answered softly.

  For a little while there was silence, and though there was to be a great gathering of the court, that night, all was very still where the lovers sat at the window, for the throne room and the great halls of state were far away on the other side of the palace, and the corridor looked upon a court through which few persons had to pass at night. Suddenly from a distance there came the rhythmical beat of the Spanish drums, as some detachment of troops marched by the outer gate. Don John listened.

  “Those are my men,” he said. “We must go, for now that they are below I can send my people on errands with orders to them, until I am alone. Then you must come in. At the end of my apartments there is a small room, beyond my own. It is furnished to be my study, and no one will expect to enter it at night. I must put you there, and lock the door and take the key with me, so that no one can go in while I am at court — or else you can lock it on the inside, yourself. That would be better, perhaps,” he added rather hurriedly.

  “No,” said the girl quietly. “I prefer that you should have the key. I shall feel even safer. But how can I get there without being seen? We cannot go so far together without meeting some one.”

  He rose, and she stood up beside him.

  “My apartments open upon the broad terrace on the south side,” he said. “At this time there will be only two or three officers there, and my two servants. Follow me at a little distance, with your hood over your face, and when you reach the sentry-box at the corner where I turn off, go in. There will be no sentinel there, and the door looks outward. I shall send away every one, on different errands, in five minutes. When every one is gone I will come for you. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” She nodded, as if she had made quite sure of what he had explained. Then she put up her hands, as if to say good-by. “Oh, if we could only stay here in peace!” she cried.

  He said nothing, for he knew that there was still much danger, and he was anxious for her. He only pressed her hands and then led her away. They followed the corridor together, side by side, to the turning. Then he whispered to her to drop behind, and she let him go on a dozen paces and followed him. The way was long, and ill lighted at intervals by oil lamps hung from the vault by small chains; they cast a broad black shadow beneath them, and shed a feeble light above. Several times persons passed them, and Dolores’ heart beat furiously. A court lady, followed by a duenna and a serving-woman, stopped with a winning smile, and dropped a low courtesy to Don John, who lifted his cap, bowed, and went on. They did not look at Dolores. A man in a green cloth apron and loose slippers, carrying five lighted lamps in a greasy iron tray, passed with perfect indifference, and without paying the least attention to the victor of Granada. It was his business to carry lamps in that part of the palace — he was not a human being, but a lamplighter. They went on, down a short flight of broad steps, and then through a wider corridor where the lights were better, though the night breeze was blowing in and made them flicker and flare.

  A corporal’s guard of the household halberdiers came swinging down at a marching step, coming from the terrace beyond. The corporal crossed his halberd in salute, but Don John stopped him, for he understood at once that a sentry had been set at his door.

  “I want no guard,” he said. “Take the man away.”

  “The General ordered it, your Highness,” answered the man, respectfully.

  “Request your captain to report to the General that I particularly desire no sentinel at my door. I have no possessions to guard except my reputation, and I can take care of that myself.” He laughed good-naturedly.

  The corporal grinned — he was a very dark, broad-faced man, with high cheek bones, and ears that stuck out. He faced about with his three soldiers, and followed Don John to the terrace — but in the distance he had seen the hooded figure of a woman.

  Not knowing what to do, for she had heard the colloquy, Dolores stood still a moment, for she did not care to pass the soldiers as they came back. Then she turned and walked a little way in the other direction, to gain time, and kept on slowly. In less than a minute they returned, bringing the sentinel with them. She walked slowly and counted them as they went past her — and then she
started as if she had been stung, and blushed scarlet under her hood, for she distinctly heard the big corporal laugh to himself when he had gone by. She knew, then, how she trusted the man she loved.

  When the soldiers had turned the corner and were out of sight, she ran back to the terrace and hid herself in the stone sentry-box just outside, still blushing and angry. On the side of the box towards Don John’s apartment there was a small square window just at the height of her eyes, and she looked through it, sure that her face could not be seen from without. She looked from mere curiosity, to see what sort of men the officers were, and Don John’s servants; for everything connected with him or belonging to him in any way interested her most intensely. Two tall captains came out first, magnificent in polished breastplates with gold shoulder straps and sashes and gleaming basket-hilted swords, that stuck up behind them as their owners pressed down the hilts and strutted along, twisting their short black moustaches in the hope of meeting some court lady on their way. Then another and older man passed, also in a soldier’s dress, but with bent head, apparently deep in thought. After that no one came for some time — then a servant, who pulled something out of his pocket and began to eat it, before he was in the corridor.

  Then a woman came past the little window. Dolores saw her as distinctly as she had seen the four men. She came noiselessly and stealthily, putting down her foot delicately, like a cat. She was a lady, and she wore a loose cloak that covered all her gown, and on her head a thick veil, drawn fourfold across her face. Her gait told the girl that she was young and graceful — something in the turn of the head made her sure that she was beautiful, too — something in the whole figure and bearing was familiar. The blood sank from Dolores’ cheeks, and she felt a chill slowly rising to her heart. The lady entered the corridor and went on quickly, turned, and was out of sight.