Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders

On Ramon's death-bed she had sworn to her father that she would act and work for her country and for her King in the way that her father would direct.

The time had come, and she did what she believed to be her duty without question and without false shame.

She knew that the knowledge which she already possessed was of paramount importance to the Government: the Prince of Orange was in Ghent-who but he would be called "your Highness"? – and moving about among his friends surreptitiously and at dead of night? Who but he would speak of the mysterious Leatherface as being on the watch for him? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent and was conspiring against the State. There had been talk of the Duke of Alva's visit to Ghent and of two thousand men being secretly armed. What other purpose save that of murder and bloodshed could be served by such secret plottings and the levying of troops in this illegal manner? The Prince of Orange was in Ghent and would on the morrow continue his underhand and treasonable machinations in the house of Messire Deynoot, Procurator-General of Ghent.

That was the extent of Lenora's knowledge, and what could she do with such a secret in her possession-she, a helpless girl, a stranger in the midst of all these enemies of her people and of her race? Could she, having gleaned so much information, quietly go to bed and sleep and let events shape their course? – and detach herself, as it were, from the destinies of her own country which her father had in a measure entrusted to her stewardship? Could she above all be false to her oath at the very moment when God gave her an opportunity of fulfilling it and of working for her country and her King in a manner which was given to very few women to do? Indeed she did not pause to think. Any thought save that of obedience would be treason to the King and sinful before God. The hour for thought would come later, and with it mayhap regret. Then so be it. Whatever suffering she would have to endure in the future, in her sentiment and in her feelings, she was ready to accept unquestioningly, just as she was prepared to fulfil her duty unquestioningly now. She knew a good deal, but surely not enough. She had seen Laurence van Rycke lock up a packet of papers in the bureau, and she had in her possession tied with a ribbon around her neck, the precious pass-key which her father had given her on the very morning when he told her how Ramon had come by his death-the curiously-fashioned piece of steel made by the metal-worker of Toledo-who had been put out of the way, because his skill had made him dangerous-and which would turn any lock or open any secret drawer.

She had no light now and did not know how to use the tinder, but in the wall of the corridor outside her door there was a little niche wherein stood a statue of the Virgin, and in front of the statute a tiny light was kept burning day and night: this would do in lieu of a candle. She would take it, she thought, and carry it into the withdrawing-room with her: it would help to guide her to the bureau where the papers were.

Yes! she was quite prepared for what she had to do, and there was no reason to wait any longer. And yet for some unaccountable reason she suddenly felt strangely inert: there were still a few dying embers in the grate, and she could see quite distinctly the high-backed chair in which she had sat last night, and the low one wherein Mark had half sat, half kneeled close beside her: the memory of that brief interview which she had had with him came upon her with a rush. It had been the only interview between them since the blessing of the Church had made them man and wife. It had ended disastrously it is true. Her words: "I hate you!" had been cruel and untrue, and overwhelming regret suddenly held her in its grip once again-as it had done all the day.

Closing her eyes for a moment-for they felt hot and heavy-she could almost believe that Mark was still there-his merry grey eyes looking deeply earnest, trying to read her innermost thoughts. His personality-so strange, so baffling even-seemed still to linger in this dimly-lighted room, and she almost could hear his voice-rugged, yet at times so sweet and tender-echoing softly along the rafters.

And all of a sudden she realised the full horror of what she was doing-of what she must do now or else become false and perjured-a traitor to her race and to her King. No longer was she a blind and unconscious tool of Fate-she was she herself-a woman who lived and thought and suffered: and before her at this moment there was nothing but an interminable vista of sorrow and suffering and regret.

Whether duty ruled her or sentiment, she-the innocent handmaid of Fate-could reap nothing but remorse in the future; her heart, her very youth, must inevitably be crushed between those two potent factors which were struggling even now for mastery over her soul.

Indeed was there ever a woman-a mere girl-confronted with so appalling, so intricate a puzzle? The lives of men were in her hands-the Prince of Orange, the High-Bailiff, Mark, Laurence, Clémence on the one side, on the other the Duke of Alva, her own father, her kindred, all those whom she had clung to and loved throughout her life.

And knowing that she never could solve such an awful problem by herself Lenora fell on her knees and prayed: she prayed with all the fervour, but also with all the simplicity of primitive faith-the faith that is willing and eager to leave everything in God's hands, to trust to guidance and help from above when life has become a hopeless and inextricable tangle-the faith which hath for its principle loyalty and obedience and which accepts suffering in its cause, and glories in it like in a martyr's crown.

III

After a few minutes Lenora felt more calm. Her deep and fervent religious sentiment had risen triumphant over every doubt. While she prayed so earnestly, so unquestioningly, it had been made clear to her that the issue of the mighty problem which was putting her very soul on the rack must remain in mightier hands than hers. She could not be the arbiter of men's lives and of the destinies of the State; all that she could do was to obey her father and fulfil her oath; beyond that, God must decide; He had shown her the way how to obtain the knowledge which she now possessed, and since her father was now back in Brussels, she must find a means of placing that knowledge in his hands. Her father of a surety was kind and just and God would Himself punish whom He willed.

With this calmer state of mind her resolution became more firm. She felt the pass-key safely in her bosom, then stealthily she slipped out of her room: the tiny light was flickering dimly at the foot of the Virgin's statue; Lenora lifted it carefully and with it in her hand prepared to go downstairs.

Scarce a sound broke the silence of the night: only the patter of the rain against the leaded panes of the windows and an occasional gust of wind that came roaring down the huge chimneys and shook the frames of windows and doors. Before descending the stairs Lenora paused once more to listen. Down the corridor she could hear Clémence van Rycke in her bedchamber still moving about, and Laurence's footstep on the tiled floor of his room.

And then the girl-shading the tiny light with her hand-began to descend.

She paused for a moment upon the landing and peeped into the vast hall below. It was fortunate that she had the tiny light, as the small lamp at the foot of the stairs had since been extinguished; but the little wick she held only threw out a faint glimmer a yard or two in front of her, and beyond this small circle there was nothing but impenetrable darkness.

The house was very still, and Lenora was absolutely without fear. From the church towers of the city, both near and far, there came the sound of bells striking the midnight hour. She waited till the last echo of the chimes had died away, then she continued her way down.

IV

Lenora now entered the dining-hall and carefully closed the door behind her. Light in hand she stood for a moment in the very angle of the room from whence she had watched the plotters an hour ago. Nothing had been deranged.

Then she went into the withdrawing-room, and placed the light upon the centre table. She looked around her mutely challenging the dumb objects-the chairs that stood about in disorder, the curtains which were not closely drawn, the bureau that was in the corner-to tell her all that she had failed to hear. In this spot a vile conspiracy had been hatched against the Duke of Alva-two thousand men were implicated in it-but in what way it threatened the Duke's life she did not know-nor yet who were all these men who had sat around this table and hatched treason against the King and State.

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.