The mother sighed dejectedly, and Mark threw himself into a chair andstretched his long legs out to the blaze: he felt his mother's eyesscanning his face and gradually a faint smile, half ironical, halfimpatient, played round the corners of his mouth.
To a superficial observer there was a great likeness between the twobrothers, although Mark was the taller and more robust of the two. Mostclose observers would, however, assert that Laurence was thebetter-looking; Mark had not the same unruly fair hair, nor look ofboyish enthusiasm; his face was more dour and furrowed, despite themerry twinkle which now and then lit up his grey eyes, and there werelines around his brow and mouth which in an older man would havesuggested the cares and anxieties of an arduous life, but which to themother's searching gaze at this moment only seemed to indicate traces ofdissipation, of nights spent in taverns, and days frittered away in thepursuit of pleasure.
Clemence van Rycke sighed as she read these signs and a bitter word ofreproach hovered on her lips; but this she checked and merelysighed--sighing and weeping were so habitual to her, poor soul!
"Have you seen your father?" she asked after a while.
"Not yet," he replied.
"You will have to tell him, Mark. I couldn't. I haven't the courage.He has always loved you better than Laurence or me--the blow would comebest from you."
"Have you told him nothing, then?"
"Nothing."
"Good God!" he exclaimed, "and he has to meet senor de Vargas within thenext two hours!"
"Oh! I hadn't the courage to tell him, Mark!" she moaned piteously, "Iwas always hoping that Laurence would think better of it all. I sodread even to think what he will say ... what he will do...."
"Laurence should have thought of that," rejoined Mark dryly, "before heembarked on this mad escapade."
"Escapade!" she exclaimed with sudden vehemence. "You can talk ofescapade, when..."
"Easy, easy, mother dear," broke in Mark good-humouredly, "I know Ideserve all your reproaches for taking this adventure so lightly. Butyou must confess, dear, that there is a comic side to the tragedy--therealways is. Laurence, the happy bridegroom-elect, takes to his heelswithout even a glimpse at the bride offered to him, whilst her beauty,according to rumour, sets every masculine heart ablaze."
The mother gave a little sigh of weariness and resignation.
"You never will understand your brother, Mark," she said with deepearnestness, "not as long as you live. You never will understand yourmother either. You are your father's son--Laurence is more wholly mine.You can look on with indifference--God help you! even with levity--onthe awful tyranny which has well-nigh annihilated our beautiful land ofFlanders. On you the weight of Spanish oppression sits over lightly....Sometimes I think I ought to thank God that He has given you a shallownature, and that I am not doomed to see both my sons suffer asLaurence--my eldest--does. To him, Mark, his country and herdowntrodden liberties are almost a religion: every act of tyrannyperpetrated by that odious Alva is a wrong which he swears to avenge.What he suffers in the innermost fibre of his being every time that yourfather lends a hand in the abominable work of persecution nobody butI--his mother--will ever know. Your father's abject submission to Alvahas eaten into his very soul. From a gay, light-hearted lad he hasbecome a stern and silent man. What schemes for the overthrow oftyrants go on within his mind, I dare not even think. That awfulbloodhound de Vargas--murderer, desecrator, thief--he loathes withdeadly abomination. When the order came forth from your father that heshould forthwith prepare for his early marriage to the daughter of thatexecrable man, he even thought of death as preferable to a union againstwhich his innermost soul rose in revolt."
She had spoken thus lengthily, very slowly but with calm and dignifiedfirmness. Mark was silent. There was a grandeur about the mother'sdefence of her beloved son which checked the word of levity upon hislips. Now Clemence van Rycke sank back in her chair exhausted by hersustained effort. She closed her eyes for a while, and Mark could nothelp but note how much his mother had aged in the past two years, howwearied she looked and how pathetic and above all how timid, like one onwhom fear is a constant attendant. When he spoke again, it was moreseriously and with great gentleness.
"I had no thought, mother dear," he said, "of belittling Laurence'searnestness, nor yet his devotion. I'll even admit, an you wish, thatthe present situation is tragic. It is now past six o'clock. Fathermust be at the Town Hall within the next two hours.... He must be told,and at once.... The question is, what can we tell him to ... to..."
"To soften the blow and to appease his fury," broke in Clemence vanRycke, and once more the look of terror crept into her eyes--a lookwhich made her stooping figure look still more wizened and forlorn."Mark," she added under her breath, "your father is frightened to deathof the Duke of Alva. I believe that he would sacrifice Laurence andeven me to save himself from the vengeance of those people."
"Hush, mother dear! now you are talking wildly. Father is perhaps alittle weak. Most of us, I fear me, now are weak. We have been cowedand brow-beaten and threatened till we have lost all sense of our ownmanhood and our own dignity."
"You perhaps," protested the mother almost roughly, "but not Laurence.You and your father are ready to lick the dust before all theseSpaniards--but I tell you that what you choose to call loyalty they callservility; they despise you for your fawning--men like Orange andLaurence they hate, but they give them grudging respect..."
"And hang them to the nearest gibbet when they get a chance," broke inMark with a dry laugh.
V
Before Clemence van Rycke could say another word, the heavy footstep ofthe High-Bailiff was heard in the hall below. The poor woman felt as ifher heart stood still with apprehension.
"Your father has finished dressing: go down to him, Mark," she implored."I cannot bear to meet him with the news."
And Mark without another word went down to meet his father.
Charles van Rycke--a fine man of dignified presence and somewhat pompousof manner--was standing in the hall, arrayed ready for the reception, inthe magnificent robes of his office. His first word on seeing Mark wasto ask for Laurence, the bridegroom-elect and hero of the coming feast.
"He is a fine-looking lad," said the father complacently, "he cannotfail to find favour in donna Lenora's sight."
The news had to be told: Mark drew his father into the dining-hall andserved him with wine.
"This marriage will mean a splendid future for us all, Mark," continuedthe High-Bailiff, as he pledged his son in a tankard of wine: "here's tothe happy young people and to the coming prosperity of our house. Nomore humiliations, Mark; no more fears of that awful Inquisition. Weshall belong to the ruling class now, tyranny can touch us no longer."
And the news had to be told. Clemence van Rycke had said nothing to herhusband about Laurence's letter--so it all had to be told, quietly andwithout preambles.
"Laurence has gone out of the house, father, vowing that he would nevermarry donna Lenora de Vargas."
It took some time before the High-Bailiff realised that Mark was notjesting; the fact had to be dwelt upon, repeated over and over again,explained and insisted on before the father was made to understand thathis son had played him false and had placed the family fortunes and thelives of its members in deadly jeopardy thereby.
"He has gone!" reiterated Mark for the tenth time, "gone with theintention not to return. At the reception to-night the bride will bewaiting, and the bridegroom will not be there. The Duke of Alva willask where is the bride-groom whom he hath chosen for the great honour,and echo will only answer 'Where?'"
Charles van Rycke was silent. He pushed away from him the tankard andbottle of wine. His face was the colour of lead.
"This means ruin for us all, Mark," he murmured, "black, hideous ruin;Alva will never forgive; de Vargas will hate us with the hatred born ofhumiliation.... A public affront to his daughter! ... O Holy Virginprotect us!" he contin
ued half-incoherently, "it will mean the scaffoldfor me, the stake for your mother..."
He rose and said curtly, "I must speak with your mother."
He went to the door but his step was unsteady. Mark forestalled him andplaced himself against the door with his hand on the latch.
"It means black ruin for us all, Mark," reiterated the High-Bailiff withsombre despair, "I must go and speak of it with your mother."
"My mother is sick and anxious," said Mark quietly, "she cannot helpwhat Laurence has done--you and I, father, can talk things over quietlywithout her."
"There is nothing that you can say, Mark ... there is nothing we can do... save, perhaps, pack up a few belongings and clear out of the countryas quickly as we can ... that is, if there is time!"
"Your imagination does not carry you very far, meseems," quoth Markdryly. "Laurence's default is not irreparable."
"What do you mean?"
"Am I not here to put it right?"
"What?--you?"
"By your leave."
"You, Mark!"
VI
The transition from black despair to this sudden ray of hope was toomuch for the old man: he tottered and nearly measured his length on thefloor. Mark had barely the time to save him from the fall. Now hepassed his trembling hand across his eyes and forehead: his knees wereshaking under him.
"You, Mark," he murmured again.
He managed to pour himself out a fresh mug of wine and drank itgreedily: then he sat down, for his knees still refused him service.
"It would be salvation indeed," he said, somewhat more steadily.
Mark shrugged his shoulders with an air of complete indifference.
"Well! frankly, father dear," he said, "I think that there is not muchsalvation for us in introducing a Spaniard into our home. Mother--andLaurence when he comes back--will have to be very careful in their talk.But you seem to think the present danger imminent...."
"Imminent, ye gods!" exclaimed the High-Bailiff, unable to repress ashudder of terror at the thought. "I tell you, Mark, that de Vargaswould never forgive what he would call a public insult--nor would Alvaforgive what he would call open disobedience. Those two men--who areall-powerful and as cruel and cunning as fiends--would track us and huntus down till they had brought you and me to the scaffold and your motherto the stake."
"I know that, father," interposed Mark with some impatience, "else Iwould not dream of standing in Laurence's shoes: the bride is verybeautiful, but I have no liking for matrimony. The question is, will deVargas guess the truth; he hath eyes like a lynx."
"No! no! he will not guess. He only saw Laurence twice--a fortnight agowhen I took him up to Brussels and presented him to senor de Vargas andto the Duke: and then again the next evening: both times the lights weredim. No! no! I have no fear of that! de Vargas will not guess! Youand your brother are at times so much alike, and donna Lenora hath notseen Laurence yet."
"And you did not speak of Laurence by name? I shouldn't care to changemine."
"No, I don't think so. I presented my son to the Duke and to senor deVargas. It was at His Highness' lodgings: the room was small and dark;and senor de Vargas paid but little heed to us."
"We Netherlanders are of so little account in the sight of thesegrandees of Spain," quoth Mark with a light laugh, "and in any case,father, we must take some risk. So will you go and see my mother andcalm her fears, whilst I go and don my best doublet and hose. Poorlittle mother! she hath put one foot into her grave through terror andanxiety on Laurence's account."
"As for Laurence..." exclaimed the High-Bailiff wrathfully.
"Don't worry about Laurence, father," broke in Mark quietly. "Hismarriage with a Spaniard would have been disastrous. He would havefallen violently in love with his beautiful wife, and she would havedragged sufficient information out of him to denounce us all to theInquisition. Perhaps," he added with good-humoured indifference, "it isall for the best."
The High-Bailiff rose and placed a hand upon his son's shoulder.
"You are a true son to me, Mark," he said earnestly, "never shall Iforget it. I am a wealthy man--more wealthy than many suppose. Invirtue of your marriage with that Spanish wench you will be more freefrom taxation than we Netherlanders are: I'll make over the bulk of myfortune to you. You shall not regret what you have done for me and foryour mother."
"It is time I went up to dress," was Mark's only comment on his father'skindly speech, and he quietly removed the paternal hand from off hisshoulder.
"Hurry on," said the High-Bailiff cheerfully, "I'll wait until you areready. I must just run up to your mother and tell her the good news.Nay! but I do believe if that hot-headed young rascal were to turn upnow, I would forgive him his senseless escapade. As you say, my dearson, it is all for the best!"
CHAPTER III
THE RULING CASTE
I
Donna Lenora de Vargas stood beside her father whilst he--asrepresenting the Lieutenant-Governor--was receiving the homage of theburghers and patricians of Ghent. This was a great honour for so young agirl, but every one--even the women--declared that donna Lenora wasworthy of the honour, and many a man--both young and old--after he hadmade obeisance before senor de Vargas paused awhile before moving away,in order to gaze on the perfect picture which she presented.
She was dressed all in white and with extreme simplicity, but the formalmode of the time, the stiff corslet and stomacher, the rigid folds ofthe brocade and high starched collar set off to perfection thestateliness of her finely proportioned figure, whilst the masses of hersoft fair hair crowned her as with a casque of gold.
When the brilliant throng of Flemish notabilities and their wives hadall filed past the Duke of Alva's representative and had all had thehonour--men and women alike--proud patricians of this ancient city, ofkissing his hand, the High-Bailiff respectfully asked for leave toformally present his son to the high officers of state.
All necks were immediately craned to see this presentation, for alreadythe rumour had spread abroad of the coming interesting engagement, andthere were many whispers of astonishment when Mark's tallfigure--dressed in sombre purple silk with fine, starched ruff ofpriceless Mechlin lace--came forward out of the crowd. Every one hadexpected to see Laurence van Rycke as the happy bridegroom-elect, and itseemed passing strange that it should be Mark--happy-go-lucky,easy-going Mark, the wastrel of the family, the ne'er-do-well--who hadbeen selected for the honour of this alliance with the daughter ofall-powerful de Vargas.
Well! perhaps Laurence never would have stooped before a Spaniard asMark had done quite naturally; perhaps Laurence was too avowedly apartisan of the Prince of Orange to have found favour in beautiful donnaLenora's sight. She certainly looked on Mark van Rycke with coolindifference; those who stood close by vowed that she flashed a glanceof contempt upon him, as he bowed low before senor de Vargas and theother officers of state.
"Your eldest son, Messire?" asked one of these seigniors graciously.
"My sons are twins," replied the High-Bailiff, "and this is my sonMark."
"Senor del Rio," said de Vargas turning to his colleague, "I have thehonour to present to you Messire Mark van Rycke, son of a loyal subjectof our King, the High-Bailiff of Ghent."
After which he turned to speak again with the High-Bailiff, and donAlberic del Rio drew Mark into a brief conversation. Excitement in thegaily-dressed throng was then at its height: the vague feeling thatsomething unusual and even mysterious was occurring caused every one'snerves to be on tenterhooks. All this while donna Lenora had been quitesilent, which was vastly becoming in a young girl, and now her fathercame up to her and he was closely followed by Mark van Rycke.
The momentous presentation was about to take place: a man and awoman--of different race, of different upbringing, of the same religionbut of widely different train of thought--were on the point of takin
g asolemn engagement to live their future life together.
Those who stood near declared that at that moment donna Lenora looked upat her father with those large, dark eyes of hers that had been veiledby the soft, sweeping lashes up to now, and that they looked wonderfullybeautiful, and were shining with unshed tears and with unspoken passion.They also say that she was on the point of speaking, that her lips wereparted, and that the word "Father!" came from them as an appealingmurmur.
But the next moment she had encountered Vargas' stern glance whichswiftly and suddenly shot out on her from beneath his droopinglids--that cruel, evil glance of his which dying men and women were wontto encounter when their bodies were racked by torture and which gavethem a last shudder of horror ere they closed their eyes in death. DonnaLenora too shivered as she turned her head away. Her cheeks were whiterthan her gown, neither had her lips any colour in them, and the kindlyFlemish women who stood by felt that their motherly heart ached for thisbeautiful young girl who seemed so forlorn in the midst of all thispomp.
II
The curious formalities demanded by ancient Flemish custom had now to becomplied with, before Messire van Rycke and donna Lenora de Vargas couldbe publicly announced as affianced to one another.
Mark having his father on his right and Messire Jean van Migrode,chief-sheriff of the Keure, on his left, advanced toward his futurebride. Young Count Mansfeld and Philip de Lannoy seigneur de Beauvoirwalked immediately behind him, and with them were a number of gentlemenand ladies--relatives and friends of the High-Bailiff of Ghent.
Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders Page 5