Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  He could not take his eyes from hers that held him, and suddenly in the pure depths he seemed to see her soul facing him without fear, and he knew that what she said was true, and his tortured heart leapt up at the good certainty.

  “I believe you, my child,” he said at last, and then his grey lids half closed over his eyes and he bent down to her, and put his arm round her.

  But she shuddered at the touch of his right hand, and though she knew that he was a condemned man, and that she might never see him again, she could not bear to receive his parting kiss upon her forehead.

  “Oh, father, why did you kill him?” she asked, turning her head away and moving to escape from his hold.

  But Mendoza did not answer. His arm dropped by his side, and his face grew white and stony. She was asking him to give up the King’s secret, to keep which he was giving his life. He felt that it would be treason to tell even her. And besides, she would not keep the secret — what woman could, what daughter would? It must go out of the world with him, if it was to be safe. He glanced at her and saw her face ravaged by an hour’s grief. Yet she would not mourn Don John the less if she knew whose hand had done the deed. It could make but a little difference to her, though to himself that difference would be great, if she knew that he died innocent.

  And then began a struggle fierce and grim, that tore his soul and wounded his heart as no death agony could have hurt him. Since he had judged her unjustly, since it had all been a hideous dream, since she was still the child that had been all in all to him throughout her life, since all was changed, he did not wish to die, he bore the dead man no hatred, it was no soothing satisfaction to his outraged heart to know him dead of a sword wound in the breast, far away in the room where they had left him, there was no fierce regret that he had not driven the thrust himself. The man was as innocent as the innocent girl, and he himself, as innocent as both, was to be led out to die to shield the King — no more. His life was to be taken for that only, and he no longer set its value at naught nor wished it over. He was the mere scapegoat, to suffer for his master’s crime, since crime it was and nothing better. And since he was willing to bear the punishment, or since there was now no escape from it, had he not at least the human right to proclaim his innocence to the only being he really loved? It would be monstrous to deny it. What could she do, after all, even if she knew the truth? Nothing. No one would dare to believe her if she accused the King. She would be shut up in a convent as a mad woman, but in any case, she would certainly disappear to end her life in some religious house as soon as he was dead. Poor girl — she had loved Don John with all her heart — what could the world hold for her, even if the disgrace of her father’s death were not to shut her out of the world altogether, as it inevitably must. She would not live long, but she would live in the profoundest sorrow. It would be an alleviation, almost the greatest possible, to know that her father’s hand was not stained by such a deed.

  The temptation to speak out was overwhelming, and he knew that the time was short. At any moment Ruy Gomez might open the door, and bid him part from her, and there would be small chance for him of seeing her again. He stood uncertain, with bent head and folded arms, and she watched him, trying to bring herself to touch his hand again and bear his kiss.

  His loyalty to the King, that was like a sort of madness, stood between him and the words he longed to say. It was the habit of his long soldier’s life, unbending as the corslet he wore and enclosing his soul as the steel encased his body, proof against every cruelty, every unkindness, every insult. It was better to die a traitor’s death for the King’s secret than to live for his own honour. So it had always seemed to him, since he had been a boy and had learned to fight under the great Emperor. But now he knew that he wavered as he had never done in the most desperate charge, when life was but a missile to be flung in the enemy’s face, and found or not, when the fray was over. There was no intoxication of fury now, there was no far ring of glory in the air, there was no victory to be won. The hard and hideous fact stared him in the face, that he was to die like a malefactor by the hangman’s hand, and that the sovereign who had graciously deigned to accept the sacrifice had tortured him for nearly half an hour without mercy in the presence of an inferior, in order to get a few facts on paper which might help his own royal credit. And as if that were not enough, his own daughter was to live after him, believing that he had cruelly murdered the man she most dearly loved. It was more than humanity could bear.

  His brow unbent, his arms unfolded themselves, and he held them out to Dolores with a smile almost gentle.

  “There is no blood on these hands, my little girl,” he said tenderly. “I did not do it, child. Let me hold you in my arms once, and kiss you before I go. We are both innocent — we can bless one another before we part for ever.”

  The pure, grey eyes opened wide in amazement. Dolores could hardly believe her ears, as she made a step towards him, and then stopped, shrinking, and then made one step more. Her lips moved and wondering words came to him, so low that he could hardly understand, save that she questioned him.

  “You did not do it!” she breathed. “You did not kill him after all? But then — who — why?”

  Still she hesitated, though she came slowly nearer, and a faint light warmed her sorrowful face.

  “You must try to guess who and why,” he said, in a tone as low as her own. “I must not tell you that.”

  “I cannot guess,” she answered; but she was close to him now, and she had taken one of his hands softly in both her own, while she gazed into his eyes. “How can I understand unless you tell me? Is it so great a secret that you must die for it, and never tell it? Oh, father, father! Are you sure — quite sure?”

  “He was dead already when I came into the room,” Mendoza answered. “I did not even see him hurt.”

  “But then — yes — then” — her voice sank to a whisper— “then it was the King!”

  He saw the words on her lips rather than heard them, and she saw in his face that she was right. She dropped his hand and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her bosom to his breastplate; and suddenly her love for him awoke, and she began to know how she might have loved him if she had known him through all the years that were gone.

  “It cannot be that he will let you die!” she cried softly. “You shall not die!” she cried again, with sudden strength, and her light frame shook his as if she would wrench him back from inevitable fate.

  “My little girl,” he answered, most tenderly clasping her to him, and most thoughtfully, lest his armour should hurt her, “I can die happy now, for I have found all of you again.”

  “You shall not die! You shall not die!” she cried. “I will not let you go — they must take me, too—”

  “No power can save me now, my darling,” he answered. “But it does not matter, since you know. It will be easy now.”

  She could only hold him with her small hands, and say over and over again that she would not let him go.

  “Ah! why have you never loved me before in all these years?” he cried. “It was my fault — all my fault.”

  “I love you now with all my heart,” she answered, “and I will save you, even from the King; and you and I and Inez will go far away, and you two shall comfort me and love me till I go to him.”

  Mendoza shook his head sadly, looking over her shoulder as he held her, for he knew that there was no hope now. Had he known, or half guessed, but an hour or two ago, he would have turned on his heel from the door of Don John’s chamber, and he would have left the King to bear the blame or shift it as he could.

  “It is too late, Dolores. God bless you, my dear, dear child! It will soon be over — two days at most, for the people will cry out for the blood of Don John’s murderer; and when they see mine they will be satisfied. It is too late now. Good-by, my little girl, good-by! The blessing of all heaven be on your dear head!”

  Dolores nestled against him, as she had never done before, with the feeling t
hat she had found something that had been wanting in her life, at the very moment when the world, with all it held for her, was slipping over the edge of eternity.

  “I will not leave you,” she cried again. “They shall take me to your prison, and I will stay with you and take care of you, and never leave you; and at last I shall save your life, and then—”

  The door of the corridor opened, and she saw Ruy Gomez standing in the entrance, as if he were waiting. His face was calm and grave as usual, but she saw a profound pity in his eyes.

  “No, no!” she cried to him, “not yet — one moment more!”

  But Mendoza turned his head at her words, looking over his shoulder, and he saw the Prince also.

  “I am ready,” he said briefly, and he tried to take Dolores’ hands from his neck. “It is time,” he said to her. “Be brave, my darling! We have found each other at last. It will not be long before we are together for ever.”

  He kissed her tenderly once more, and loosed her hold, putting her two hands together and kissing them also.

  “I will not say good-by,” she said. “It is not good-by — it shall not be. I shall be with you soon.”

  His eyes lingered upon hers for a moment, and then he broke away, setting his teeth lest he should choke and break down. He opened the door and presented himself to the halberdiers. Dolores heard his familiar voice give the words of command.

  “Close up! Forward, march!”

  The heavy tramp she knew so well began at once, and echoed along the outer entries, growing slowly less distinct till it was only a distant and rumbling echo, and then died away altogether. Her hand was still on the open door, and Ruy Gomez was standing beside her. He gently drew her away, and closed the door again. She let him lead her to a chair, and sat down where she had sat before. But this time she did not lean back exhausted, with half-closed eyes, — she rested her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she tried to think connectedly to a conclusion. She remembered all the details of the past hours one by one, and she felt that the determination to save her father had given her strength to live.

  “Don Ruy Gomez,” she said at last, looking up to the tall old nobleman, who stood by the brazier warming his hands again, “can I see the King alone?”

  “That is more than I can promise,” answered the Prince. “I have asked an audience for you, and the chamberlain will bring word presently whether his Majesty is willing to see you. But if you are admitted, I cannot tell whether Perez will be there or not. He generally is. His presence need make no difference to you. He is an excellent young man, full of heart. I have great confidence in him, — so much so that I recommended him to his Majesty as Secretary. I am sure that he will do all he can to be of use to you.”

  Dolores looked up incredulously, and with a certain wonder at the Prince’s extreme simplicity. Yet he had been married ten years to the clever woman who ruled him and Perez and King Philip, and made each one believe that she was devoted to him only, body and soul. Of the three, Perez alone may have guessed the truth, but though it was degrading enough, he would not let it stand in the way of his advancement; and in the end it was he who escaped, leaving her to perish, the victim of the King’s implacable anger, Dolores could not help shaking her head in answer to the Prince of Eboli’s speech.

  “People are very unjust to Perez,” he said. “But the King trusts him. If he is there, try to conciliate him, for he has much influence with his Majesty.”

  Dolores said nothing, and resuming her attitude, returned to her sad meditations, and to the study of some immediate plan. But she could think of no way. Her only fixed intention was to see the King himself. Ruy Gomez could do no more to help her than he had done already, and that indeed was not little, since it was to his kindly impulse that she owed her meeting with her father.

  “And if Perez is not inclined to help Don Diego,” said the Prince, after a long pause which had not interrupted the slow progression of, his kindly thought, “I will request my wife to speak to him. I have often noticed that the Princess can make Perez do almost anything she wishes. Women are far cleverer than men, my dear — they have ways we do not understand. Yes, I will interest my wife in the affair. It would be a sad thing if your father—”

  The old man stopped short, and Dolores wondered vaguely what he had been going to say. Ruy Gomez was a very strange compound of almost childlike and most honourable simplicity, and of the experienced wisdom with regard to the truth of matters in which he was not concerned, which sometimes belongs to very honourable and simple men.

  “You do not believe that my father is guilty,” said Dolores, boldly asserting what she suspected.

  “My dear child,” answered Ruy Gomez, twisting his rings on his fingers as he spread his hands above the coals in the brazier, “I have lived in this court for fifty years, and I have learned in that time that where great matters are at stake those who do not know the whole truth are often greatly deceived by appearances. I know nothing of the real matter now, but it would not surprise me if a great change took place before to-morrow night. A man who has committed a crime so horrible as the one your father confessed before us all rarely finds it expedient to make such a confession, and a young girl, my dear, who has really been a little too imprudently in love with a royal Prince, would be a great deal too wise to make a dramatic statement of her fault to the assembled Grandees of Spain.”

  He looked across at Dolores and smiled gently. But she only shook her head gravely in answer, though she wondered at what he said, and wondered, too, whether there might not be a great many persons in the court who thought as he did. She was silent, too, because it hurt her to talk when she could not draw breath without remembering that what she had lived for was lying dead in that dim room on the upper story.

  The door opened, and a chamberlain entered the room.

  “His Majesty is pleased to receive Doña Dolores de Mendoza, in private audience,” he said.

  Ruy Gomez rose and led Dolores out into the corridor.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DOLORES HAD PREPARED no speech with which to appeal to the King, and she had not counted upon her own feelings towards him when she found herself in the room where Mendoza had been questioned, and heard the door closed behind her by the chamberlain who had announced her coming. She stood still a moment, dazzled by the brilliant lights after having been so long in the dimmer waiting room. She had never before been in the King’s study, and she had fancied it very different from what it really was when she had tried to picture to herself the coming interview. She had supposed the room small, sombre, littered with books and papers, and cold; it was, on the contrary, so spacious as to be almost a hall, it was brightly illuminated and warmed by the big wood fire. Magnificent tapestries covered the walls with glowing colour, and upon one of these, in barbaric bad taste, was hung a single great picture by Titian, Philip’s favourite master. Dolores blushed as she recognized in the face of the insolent Venus the features of the Princess of Eboli. Prom his accustomed chair, the King could see this painting. Everywhere in the room there were rich objects that caught and reflected the light, things of gold and silver, of jade and lapis lazuli, in a sort of tasteless profusion that detracted from the beauty of each, and made Dolores feel that she had been suddenly transported out of her own element into another that was hard to breathe and in which it was bad to live. It oppressed her, and though her courage was undiminished, the air of the place seemed to stifle her thought and speech.

  As she entered she saw the King in profile, seated in his great chair at some distance from the fire, but looking at it steadily. He did not notice her presence at first. Antonio Perez sat at the table, busily writing, and he only glanced at Dolores sideways when he heard the door close after her. She sank almost to the ground as she made the first court curtsey before advancing, and she came forward into the light. As her skirt swept the ground a second time, Philip looked slowly round, and his dull stare followed her as she came round in a quarter of a wide c
ircle and curtsied a third time immediately in front of him.

  She was very beautiful, as she stood waiting for him to speak, and meeting his gaze fearlessly with a look of cold contempt in her white face such as no living person had ever dared to turn to him, while the light of anger burned in her deep grey eyes. But for the presence of the Secretary, she would have spoken first, regardless of court ceremony. Philip looked at her attentively, mentally comparing her with his young Queen’s placidly dull personality and with the Princess of Eboli’s fast disappearing and somewhat coarse beauty. For the Princess had changed much since Titian had painted his very flattering picture, and though she was only thirty years of age, she was already the mother of many children. Philip stared steadily at the beautiful girl who stood waiting before him, and he wondered why she had never seemed so lovely to him before. There was a half morbid, half bitter savour in what he felt, too, — he had just condemned the beauty’s father to death, and she must therefore hate him with all her heart. It pleased him to think of that; she was beautiful and he stared at her long.

  “Be seated, Doña Dolores,” he said at last, in a muffled voice that was not harsh. “I am glad that you have come, for I have much to say to you.”

  Without lifting his wrist from the arm of the chair on which it rested, the King moved his hand, and his long forefinger pointed to a low cushioned stool that was placed near him. Dolores came forward unwillingly and sat down. Perez watched the two thoughtfully, and forgot his writing. He did not remember that any one excepting the Princess of Eboli had been allowed to be seated in the King’s study. The Queen never came there. Perez’ work exempted him in private, of course, from much of the tedious ceremonial upon which Philip insisted. Dolores sat upon the edge of the stool, very erect, with her hands folded on her knees.

  “Doña Dolores is pale,” observed the King. “Bring a cordial, Perez, or a glass of Oporto wine.”