Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders

The tiny wick only shed a very feeble glimmer of light on the top of the table: it made the shadows on the ceiling dance a weird rigadoon and grow to fantastic proportions. But Lenora's eyes were growing well-accustomed to the gloom. Quickly now she drew the pass-key from between the folds of her kerchief and went up to the bureau. The ribbon round her neck was in the way so she took it off; with trembling, unerring fingers she groped for the lock and having found it she inserted the pass-key into it. After a little adjustment, a little tugging and pulling, she found that the lock yielded quite smoothly to the pressure. The flap came down and displayed the interior of the bureau, consisting of a number of wide pigeon-holes, in each of which there was a small iron box such as the rich matrons of Flanders used for putting away their pearls and other pieces of jewellery. On the top of one of these boxes there was a packet of papers, tied round with a piece of orange-coloured ribbon. Without a moment's hesitation Lenora took it. She unfolded one of the papers and laid it out flat upon the table, smoothing it out with her hand. She drew the light a little nearer and examined the writing carefully: it was just a list of names-fifty in all-with places of abode all set out in a double column, and at the bottom was written in a bold hand:

"All the above to Afsemble without any delay in the Barn which is fituated in the North-Weft angle of the Cemetery at the back of the Chapel of St. Jan ten Dullen."

Having satisfied herself that the other papers in the packet also contained lists of names and brief orders as to place of assembly, she tied them all up together again with the orange-coloured ribbon. Then she closed the bureau, turned the pass-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 casements. 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 casements 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 God 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 Clémence, who had been kind to her. But she despised them-aye! and loathed them, and was grateful to God 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 gods!" 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 assented 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 attitude, 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."

"You, Messire!" she exclaimed, "you would…"

"I would do anything to further your wishes, Madonna; this I would have you believe. And a journey to Brussels is such a small matter…"

"As you say," she murmured. For such are the contradictions of a woman's heart that all of a sudden she did not wish to go away. All thoughts of rebellion and conspiracies were unaccountably thrust into the background of her mind, and … she did not wish to go away…

"There is no hurry," she continued timidly. "I would not like to put you to inconvenience."

"Oh!" he rejoined airily, "there is no inconvenience which I would not gladly bear in order to gratify your wish."

"I shall have to pack my effects…"

"Jeanne will help Inez, and a few things are easily packed. Your effects shall follow in an ox-wagon; they will be two days on the way; so I pray you take what is required for your immediate needs and is easily stowed in your saddle-bow. We shall have to make an early start, if you desire to be in Brussels by nightfall."

"Oh! there is no hurry," she protested.

"Ah? Then in that case I could escort you as far as Alost, and send a courier thence to your father, to meet you there the next day."

She bit her lip and could have cried with vexation. At the present moment she hated him for so obviously wishing to be rid of her. She had quite forgotten that she had ever wanted to go.

"I shall be too tired to make an early start in the morning," she said quite piteously. "Why it is close on early morning now."

She leaned a little forward in order to listen, for just then the chimes of St. Bavon rang the half-hour after midnight. She still looked a small, pale, slim ghost with one side of her exquisite face in shadow, the other but faintly illumined by the light from without. Her vexation, her indecision, were so plainly expressed in her eyes, that he must indeed have been vastly dull or vastly indifferent not to have read her thoughts. Nevertheless, he said with the same calm airiness as before:

"A few hours' rest will revive you, Madonna. And if we only go as far as Alost to-morrow, we need not start before midday."

At this her pride was aroused. His indifference now amounted to insolence. With a vigorous effort she swallowed her tears, for they were very near the surface, and then she rose abruptly, with the air and manners of a queen, looking down in her turn with haughty indifference on that abominable Netherlander whom she had never hated so thoroughly as she did at this moment.

"I thank you, Messire," she said coldly, "I pray you then to see that all arrangements be complete for my journey as early as may be. I would wish to be in Brussels by nightfall, and half a dozen leagues or so does not frighten me."

She rose with all that stateliness which was a part of herself and suited her tall, graceful figure so admirably; as she did so she gave him a curt nod such as she would have bestowed on a serving man. He too rose to his feet but he made no attempt to detain her. On the contrary, he at once busied himself with his tinder box, and relighted the little lamp. Then he went to the door, unlocked it and held it open for her to pass through.

As she did so she took the lamp from him, and for one moment their hands met. His were burning hot and hers quite cold-his fingers lingered upon the satiny softness of hers.

But she sailed past him without bestowing another glance upon him, with little head erect and eyes looking straight out before her. In one hand she held the lamp, with the other she was holding up the heavy folds of her trailing gown, her tiny feet in velvet shoes made no sound as she glided across the hall. Soon she was a mere silhouette with the light just playing faintly with the loose curls round her head and touching the lines of her shoulders and arms and one or two folds of her gown. She mounted the stairs slowly as if she was infinitely weary; Mark watched the graceful, ghostlike form gliding upwards until the gloom had swallowed it up.

Then he turned back into the room.

VII

The first thing that Mark did when he was alone was to close the door; then he struck a light and lit a candle. With it in his hand he went into the withdrawing-room and-having peered closely into the four corners of the room, as if he half-expected to see some night-prowler there-he placed the candle on the table, drew a bunch of keys from the inner pocket of his doublet, and going up to the bureau proceeded to unlock it just as Lenora had done.

He gave one quick glance at the interior of the bureau, then he put up the flap and once more turned the key in the lock.

Having done this he stood for awhile quite still, his chin buried in his hand, his broad shoulders bent, a deep, double furrow between his brows. From time to time a deep sigh escaped his lips, and his merry grey eyes almost disappeared beneath the heavy frown. Then he seemed to shake himself free from his obsession, he straightened out his tall figure and threw back his head with a movement of pride and of defiance.

He took up the candle and started to go out of the room, but on the threshold he paused again and looked behind him. The table, the chairs, the bureau seemed in a strange weird way to be mocking him-they looked so placid and so immovable-so stolid in the face of the terrible calamity which had just fallen on this house.

And suddenly Mark with a violent gesture threw the heavy candlestick to the ground. The flame flickered as it fell and the taper rolled about gently for a while from side to side until it landed close to his feet. He smothered a curse and put his heel upon the taper, crushing the wax into a shapeless mass; then with a curious groan, half of pain half of bitter irony, he passed his hand once or twice across his brow.

Slowly the glow of wrath faded from his eyes, a look of wonderful tenderness, coupled with gentle good-humour and kindliness softened the rugged lines of his face. A whimsical smile played round the corners of his lips.

"She must be wooed and she must be won," he murmured. "Mark, you lumbering fool, can you do it? You have less than twenty-four hours in which…"

He sighed again and laughed softly to himself, shaking his head dubiously the while. Then he went out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER IX

A DIVIDED DUTY

I

Strange and conflicting were the feelings which ran riot through Lenora's soul when she once more found herself alone in her own room. Mortification held for a time undisputed sway-a sense of injury-of having gone half-way to meet she knew not what and having been repulsed. She was quite sure that she hated her husband now, far more bitterly than she had ever hated any one before-at the same time she felt relieved that he at any rate had no part in the treachery which was being hatched under his father's roof.

One thing, however, gave her an infinite sense of relief. She was going back to her father on the morrow. She would leave this house where she had known nothing but sorrow and humiliation since first she entered it; above all she would never see those people again on whom she had been spying!

Yes! Spying!

There was no other word for it; hideous as it was it expressed what Lenora had done. Oh! there was no sophistry about the girl. She was too proud, too pure to try and palliate what she had done, by shirking to call it by its name. She had done a task which had been imposed on her by her King, her country, and her father. She had sworn to do it-sworn it on the deathbed of the only man who had ever loved her, the only man whose voice and touch had thrilled her, the companion of her childhood, her accepted lover and her kinsman.

She had done it because God Himself through her father's and her King's own mouth had ordered her to do it; and it was not for her-ignorant, unsophisticated, sinful mayhap-to question God's decrees. But when she thought back on the events of the past hour, she felt a shudder of horror slowly creeping along her spine.

And she thanked God that He would allow her to leave this house for ever, and for ever to turn her back on those whom she-so unwillingly-had betrayed.

But she would not allow her mind to dwell on such morbid fancies. There was a great deal to be done ere the morning broke. Her task-if it was to be fruitful-was not completed yet.

She began by taking down a pair of metal candlesticks which stood on a shelf above the hearth and lighting the candles at a small lamp which she had brought up with her. These she placed upon the table; then she went to the press where only a few hours ago Inez had ranged all her clothes and effects, her new gowns and linen. From among these things, she took a flat wallet in which were some sheets of paper, a quill and small inkhorn, also some wax for sealing letters down.

She went to her task slowly and methodically, for she was unaccustomed to writing letters. In the convent they had taught her how to do it, and twice a year she had written to her father-once on New Year's Day, and once on the feast of San Juan-but the task before her was a far more laborious one than she had ever undertaken with pen and paper.

But she sat down, courageously, to write.

She wrote an account of everything that she had seen, heard and experienced in this house, from the moment when first she left her room in the evening in order to seek companionship, until the moment when, having secured the packet of papers, she had relocked the bureau with her pass-key and started to go back to her room. What she did not set down in writing was her subsequent meeting with her husband, for that had no connection with the Prince of Orange or with conspiracies, and was merely a humiliating episode in the life of a neglected bride.

The grey dawn slowly creeping in through the leaded glass of her window still found her at her task. The candles had burned down low in their sockets, their light-of a dim yellow colour-fought feebly against the incoming dawn. But Lenora felt no fatigue.

She wrote in a small, cramped hand and covered four sheets of paper with close writing. When she had finished, she read all that she had written down carefully through, made several corrections in the text and folded the sheets neatly together. Then she took from the bosom of her gown the packet of papers which she had found in the bureau, put it together with her own writing and enclosed everything in a clean sheet of paper carefully folded over. Round this she tied a piece of white ribbon, such as she used for doing up her hair, and sealed it all down with wax.

Finally, on the outside of this packet she wrote with a clear hand:

"To don Juan de Vargas at his refidence in Brufsels. To be given unto Him with the Seal unbroken in the eyent of My death."