The look of terror became more marked upon his face, his dark skin hadbecome almost livid in hue: and Lenora clung to him, trembling, for sheknew that everything he said was true. They were like two birds caughtin the net of a remorseless fowler: to struggle for freedom were worsethan useless. De Vargas was a man who had attained supreme power besidethe most absolute tyrant the world had ever known. Every human beingaround him--even his only child--was a mere pawn in his hands for thegreat political game in which the Duke of Alva was the chief player--amere tool for the fashioning of that monstrous chain which was destinedto bind the Low Countries to the chariot-wheels of Spain. A uselesstool, a superfluous pawn he would throw away without a pang of remorse:this don Ramon knew and so did Lenora--but in Ramon that knowledgereigned supreme and went hand in hand with terror, whilst in the younggirl there was all the desire to defy that knowledge and to make asupreme fight for love and happiness.
"I must not stay any longer now, my sweet," he said after awhile, "ifyour father has so absolutely forbidden you to see me, then I havetarried here too long already."
He rose and gently disengaged himself from the tender hands which clungso pathetically to him.
"I can't let you go, Ramon," she implored, "it seems as if you weregoing right out of my life--and that my life would go with you if youwent."
"Sweetheart," he said a little impatiently, "it is dangerous for me tostay a moment longer. Try and be brave--I'll not say farewell--We'llmeet again...."
"How?"
"Let Inez be at the corner of the Broodhuis this evening. I'll give hera letter for you. In the meanwhile I shall have seen your father. Whoknows his decision may not be irrevocable--after all you are the onebeing in the world he has to love and to care for; he cannot wilfullybreak your heart and destroy your happiness."
She shook her head dejectedly. But the next moment she looked up tryingto seem hopeful. She believed that he suffered just as acutely as shedid, and, womanlike, did not want to add to his sorrow by letting himguess too much of her own. She contrived to keep back her tears; shehad shed so many of late that their well-spring had mayhap run dry: hefolded her in his arms, for she was exquisitely beautiful and he reallyloved her. Marriage with her would have been both blissful andadvantageous, and his pride was sorely wounded at the casual treatmentmeted out to him by de Vargas: at the same time the thought of defiancenever once entered his head--for defiance could only end in death, anddon Ramon felt quite sure that even if he lost his beautiful fiancee,life still held many compensations for him in the future.
Therefore he was able to part from Lenora with a light heart, whilsthers was overweighted with sorrow. He kissed her eyes, her hair, herlips, and murmured protestations of deathless love which only enhancedher grief and enflamed all that selfless ardour of which her passionatenature was capable. Never had she loved don Ramon de Linea as she lovedhim at this hour of parting--never perhaps would she love as fondlyagain.
And he with a last, tender kiss, airily bade her to be brave andtrustful, and finally waved her a cheery farewell.
CHAPTER II
THE SUBJECT RACE
I
"I cannot do it, mother, I cannot! The very shame of it would kill me!"
Laurence van Rycke sat on a low chair in front of the fire, his elbowpropped on his knee, his chin buried in his hand. His mother gave alittle shiver, and drew her woollen shawl closer round her shoulders.
"You cannot go against your father's will," she said tonelessly, likeone who has even lost the power to suffer acutely. "God alone knowswhat would become of us all if you did."
"He can only kill me," retorted Laurence, with fierce, passionateresentment.
"And how should I survive if he did?"
"Would you not rather see me dead, mother dear, than wedded to a womanwhose every thought, every aspiration must tend toward the furtherdestruction of our country--she the daughter of the most hideous tyrantthat has ever defamed this earth--more hideous even than that execrableAlva himself..."
He paused abruptly in the midst of this passionate outburst, for the oldhouse--which had been so solemn and silent awhile ago, suddenly echoedfrom end to end with loud and hilarious sounds, laughter and shouts,heavy footsteps, jingle of spurs and snatches of song, immediatelyfollowed by one or two piteous cries uttered in a woman's piercingvoice. Laurence van Rycke jumped to his feet.
"What was that?" he cried, and made a dash for the door. His mother'simploring cry called him back.
"No, no, Laurence! don't go!" she begged. "It is only the soldiers!They tease Jeanne, and she gets very cross! ... We have six men and asergeant quartered here now, besides the commandant..."
"Eight Spanish soldiers in the house of the High-Bailiff of Ghent!"exclaimed Laurence, and a prolonged laugh of intense bitterness camefrom his overburdened heart. "Oh God!" he added, as he stretched out hisarms with a gesture of miserable longing and impotence, "to endure allthis outrage and all this infamy!--to know as we do, what has happenedin Mons and Mechlin and to be powerless to do anything--anything againstsuch hideous, appalling, detestable tyranny--to feel every wrong andevery injustice against the country one loves, against one's own kithand kin, eating like the plague into one's very bones and to remainpowerless, inert, an insentient log in the face of it all. And all thewhile to be fawning--always fawning and cringing, kissing the master'shand that wields the flail.... Ugh! And now this new tyranny, thisabominable marriage.... Ye Heavens above me! but mine own cowardice inaccepting it would fill me with unspeakable loathing!"
"Laurence, for pity's sake!" implored the mother.
At her call he ran to her and knelt at her feet: then burying his headin his hands he sobbed like a child.
"I cannot do it, mother!" he reiterated piteously, "I cannot do it. Iwould far rather die!"
With gentle, mechanical touch she stroked his unruly fair hair, andheavy tears rolled down her wan cheeks upon her thin, white hands.
"Just think of it, mother dear," resumed Laurence a little more calmlyafter a while, "would it not be introducing a spy into our very home?... and just now ... at the time when we all have so much at stake ...the Prince..."
"Hush, Laurence!" implored the mother; and this time she placed anauthoritative hand upon his arm and gave it a warning pressure; but herwan cheeks had become a shade paler than before, and the look of terrorbecame more marked in her sunken eyes.
"Even these walls have ears these days," she added feebly.
"There is no danger here, mother darling ... nobody can hear," he saidreassuringly. But nevertheless he, too, cast a quick look of terrorinto the remote corners of the room and dropped his voice to a whisperwhen he spoke again.
"Juan de Vargas' daughter," he said with passionate earnestness, "whathath she in common with us? She hates every Netherlander; she despisesus all, as every Spaniard does: she would wish to see our beautifulcountry devastated, our cities destroyed, our liberties and ancientprivileges wrested from us, and every one of us made into an abjectvassal of her beloved Spain. Every moment of my life I should feel thatshe was watching me, spying on me, making plans for the undoing of ourcause, and betraying our secrets to her abominable father. Mother dear,such a life would be hell upon earth. I could not do it. I would farrather die."
"But what can you do, Laurence?" asked Clemence van Rycke, with a sighof infinite misery.
Laurence rose and dried his tears. He felt that they had been unmanly,and was half ashamed of them. Fortunately it was only his mother who hadseen them, and ... how well she understood!
"I must think it all over, mother dear," he said calmly. "It is earlyyet. Father will not want me to be at the Town-house before eighto'clock. Oh! how could he ever have been so mean, so obsequious as toagree to this selling of his son in such a shameful market."
"How could he help it?" retorted the mother with a fretful little sigh."The Duke of Alva comm
anded in the name of the King, and threatened usall with the Inquisition if we disobeyed. You know what that means,"she added, whilst that pitiable look of horror and fear once more creptinto her eyes.
"Sometimes I think," said Laurence sombrely--he was standing in front ofthe fire and staring into the crackling logs with a deep frown rightacross his brow--"sometimes I think that the worst tortures which thosedevils could inflict on us would be more endurable than this life ofconstant misery and humiliation."
The mother made no reply. Her wan cheeks had become the colour ofashes, her thin hands which were resting in her lap were seized with anervous tremour. From below came still the sound of loud laughterintermixed now with a bibulous song. A smothered cry of rage escapedLaurence's lips: it seemed as if he could not stay still, as if he mustrun and stop this insult in his mother's house, silence those brawlingsoldiers, force their own obscene songs down their throats, regardlessof the terrible reprisals which might ensue. Only his mother's thin,trembling hand upon his arm forced him to remain, and to swallow hisresentment as best he could.
"It is no use, Laurence," she murmured, "and I would be the first tosuffer."
This argument had the effect of forcing Laurence van Rycke to controlhis raging temper. Common sense came momentarily to the rescue and toldhim that his mother was right. He started pacing up and down the narrowroom with a view to calming his nerves.
II
"Have you seen Mark this morning?" asked Clemence van Rycke suddenly.
"No," he replied, "have you?"
"Only for a moment."
"What had he to say?"
"Oh! you know Mark's way," she replied evasively. "It seems that hecaught sight of donna Lenora de Vargas when she passed through theWaalpoort yesterday. He made a flippant joke or two about your goodluck and the girl's beauty."
Laurence suppressed an angry oath.
"Don't blame Mark," interposed Clemence van Rycke gently, "he is as Godmade him--shallow, careless..."
"Not careless where his own pleasures are concerned," said Laurence,with a laugh of bitter contempt. "Last night at the 'Three Weavers' alot of Spanish officers held carouse. Mark was with them till far intothe night. There was heavy drinking and high play, and Mark..."
"I know, I know," broke in the mother fretfully, "do not let us speak ofMark. He is his father's son ... and you are mine," she added, as witha wistful little gesture she stretched out her arms to the son whom sheloved. Once more he was at her feet kissing her hands.
"Do not fret, mother dear," he said, "I'll think things out quietly, andthen do what I think is right."
"You'll do nothing rash, Laurence," she pleaded, "nothing withoutconsulting me?"
"I must consult my conscience first, dear," he said firmly, "and then Imust speak with the Prince.... Yes! yes! I know," he added somewhatimpatiently, as once again he felt that warning pressure on his arm."Next to God my every thought is for him; nor did he think of himselfwhen he refused to acknowledge the autocracy of Alva. Our time is athand, mother dear, I feel it in my bones. The last response has beensplendid: we have promises of close on two thousand ducats already, andtwo hundred men are ready to take up arms in the city at any moment.Yes! yes! I know! and I am careful--I am as wary as the fox! But howcan I at such a moment think of matrimony? How can I think of bendingthe knee to such abominable tyranny? I bend the knee only to the Princeof Orange, and by him I swear that I will not wed the daughter of Juande Vargas! I will not bring to this hearth and to my home one of thatgang of execrable tyrants who have ravaged our country and crushed thespirit of our people. I have work to do for Orange and for my country.I will not be hindered by bonds which are abhorrent to me."
He gave his mother a final kiss and then hurried out of the room. Shewould have detained him if she could, for she was terrified of what hemight do; but she called after him in vain, and when presently she wentto his room to look for him, he was not there. But on his desk therewas a letter addressed to his father; Clemence van Rycke took it up: itwas not sealed, only rolled, and tied with ribbon: this she undid andread the letter. There were only a few words, and when the unfortunatewoman had grasped their full meaning she uttered a moan of pain and sankhalf-fainting on her knees. Here Jeanne found her half an hour later,sobbing and praying. The faithful creature comforted her mistress asbest she could, then she half carried, half led her back to her room.The letter written to his father by Laurence van Rycke contained thefollowing brief communication:
"Find fomeone elfe, My Father, to help you lick our Spanifh tyrants'boots. I cannot do it. I refufe to wed the Daughter of that Bloodhoundde Vargas, but as I cannot live under Your roof and difobey You, I willnot return until You bid Me come."
III
This had occurred early this morning; it was now late in the afternoon,and Laurence had not returned. The levie at the Town Hall was timed foreight o'clock, and the High-Bailiff had just come home in order to donhis robes for the solemn occasion.
Clemence van Rycke had made an excuse not to see him yet: like all weak,indecisive natures she was hoping against hope that something wouldoccur even now to break Laurence's obstinacy and induce him to bow tothat will against which it was so useless to rebel.
But the minutes sped on, and Laurence did not return, and from a roomclose by came the sound of Messire van Rycke's heavy footstep and hisgruff voice giving orders to the serving man who was helping him withhis clothes. Another hour, or perhaps two at most, and she would have totell her husband what had happened--and the awful catastrophe would haveto be faced. As she sat in the high-backed chair, Clemence van Ryckefelt as if an icy chill had crept into her bones.
"Put another log on the fire, Jeanne," she said, "this autumn weatherhath chilled me to the marrow."
Jeanne, capable, buxom and busy, did as she was bid. She did more. Sheran nimbly out of the room and in a trice had returned with Madame'schaufferette--well filled with glowing charcoal--and had put it to hermistress' feet: then she lit the candles in the tall candelabra whichstood on a heavy sideboard at the further end of the room, and drew theheavy curtains across the window. The room certainly looked more cosynow: Madame only gave one slight, final shiver, and drew her shawlcloser round her shoulders.
"Is Messire Mark dressed yet, Jeanne?" she asked wistfully.
"Messire came in about ten minutes ago," replied the woman.
"Let him know that I wish to speak with him as soon as he can come tome.'
"Yes, Madame."
"You have seen to the soldiers' supper?"
"They have had one supper, Madame. They are on duty at the Town Halltill eleven o'clock; then they are coming home for a second supper."
"Then will don Ramon de Linea sup with us, think you?"
"He didn't say."
"In any case lay his place ready in case he wants to sup. He'll be onduty quite late too, and it will anger him if his supper is not to histaste."
"Whatever I do will never be to the commandant's taste: he didn't likehis room and he didn't like the dinner I had cooked for him. When heheard in whose house he was he swore and blasphemed, as I never heardany one blaspheme before. I worked my fingers to the bone last nightand this morning to mend his linen and starch his ruff, but even then hewas not satisfied."
There was a tone of bitter wrath in Jeanne's voice as she spoke. Madamedrew a fretful little sigh, but she made no comment. What was the use?The Spanish soldiers and officers quartered in the houses of Flemishburghers had an unpleasant way of enforcing their wishes with regard tofood and drink which it was not wise to combat these days. So Clemencevan Rycke dismissed Jeanne, and remained brooding alone, staring intothe fire, repeating in her mind all that Laurence had said, looking intothe future with that same shiver of horror which was habitual to her,and into all the awful possibilities which must inevitably followLaurence's hot-headed act of rebellion.
IV
And as she sat there huddled up in the high-backed chair it would bedifficult to realise that Clemence van Rycke was still on the right sideof fifty.
She had married when she had only just emerged out of childhood, and hadbeen in her day one of the brightest, prettiest, gayest of all themaidens in the city of Ghent. But now her eyes had lost their sparkle,and her mouth its smile. Her shoulders were bent as if under aperpetual load of care and anxiety, and in her once so comely face therewas a settled look of anxiety and of fear. Even now, when a firmfootstep resounded along the tiled corridor, she lost nothing of thatattitude of dejection which seemed to have become habitual to her.
In answer to a timid knock at the door, she called a fretful "Enter!"but she did not turn her head, as Mark--her younger son--came close upto her chair. He stooped to kiss the smooth white forehead which wasnot even lifted for his caress.
"Any news?" were the first words which Clemence van Rycke uttered, andthis time she looked up more eagerly and a swift glimmer of hope shotthrough her tear-dimmed eyes.
"Nothing definite," replied Mark van Rycke. "He had food and drink atthe hostelry of St. John just before midday, and at the tavern of 'TheSilver Bell' later in the afternoon. Apparently he has not left thecity as no one saw him pass through any of the gates--but if Laurencedoes not mean to be found, mother dear," he added with a light shrug ofthe shoulders, "I might as well look for a needle in a haystack as toseek him in the streets of Ghent."
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