Leatherface: A Tale of Old Flanders
Page 33
Her voice broke in a sob, her head fell forward upon her hands and thoseof the older woman, and a pitiable moan of pain came from heroverburdened heart. Laurence, with his head buried in his hands, wouldhave given his life to spare her all this misery. But Clemence saidnothing--she did not repulse the girl nor did she draw her to her heart;whether she still mistrusted her or not it were impossible to say,certain it is that she listened, and that words of hatred no longer roseto her lips.
"You will not let me see Mark," continued Lenora, trying to speak morecalmly, "you are afraid that I would go to him as an enemy ... a spy ...an assassin.... Ah! you have chosen the weapon well wherewith to punishme! An enemy, ye gods!--I who would give the last drop of blood in myveins to help him at this hour, I who love him with every fibre of myheart, with every aspiration of my soul! ... Don't you understand?cannot you understand that he has forced his way right into my verybeing, that I have left my people, my father, to come to him ... to warnhim, to help him ... to be with him in the hour of danger.... Let mestay.... Let me be with him! ... Cannot you see that Love for him isall that I live for now?..."
She had ceased speaking, and over the high, oak-panelled room there fella silence which soon became oppressive. A few moments ago while Lenorawas pouring out her heart in wild words of passionate longing, Clemenceand Laurence had suddenly uttered a cry--half of horror and half ofjoy--a cry which was quickly suppressed and which the girl did not hear.Now the tension on her nerves was suddenly relaxed and she broke downutterly--physically and mentally she felt like one who has received ablow with a pole-axe and is only just alive--no longer sentient, hardlysuffering. She was crouching on the ground with her head on the olderwoman's knee, a pathetic picture of hopelessness. She felt indeed as ifthis earth could hold no greater suffering than what she endured now--tohave dreamed for one brief while that she had helped the man she lovedin the hour of his greatest danger, and then to be made to feel that shewas still an enemy in the sight of all his people.
She lost count of time, it might have been but a few seconds that sheknelt there broken-hearted; it might have been a cycle of years; the dinfrom the streets outside, the bustle inside the house only reached herears like sounds that come in a dream. A kind of torpor had fallen overthe broken-hearted girl's senses and mercifully saved her from furtherpain. She closed her eyes and semi-consciousness wrapped her in akindly embrace. Semi-consciousness or a happy dream. She could nottell. All that she knew was that suddenly all misery and all sufferingfell away from her; that an invisible presence was in the room which waslike that of the angel of peace, and that strong, kind arms held herclosely, so that she no longer felt that an awful chasm yawned beforeher and that she was falling into a hideous abyss where there wasneither hope nor pardon. Of course it must have been a dream--suchdreams as come to the dying who have suffered much and see the end ofall their woe in a prescient glimpse of heaven--for it seemed to herthat the kind grey eyes which she loved were looking on her now, thatthey smiled on her with infinite tenderness and infinite understanding,and that the lips which she had longed to kiss whispered gentle,endearing words in her ear.
"It is your love, Madonna, which led me to victory. Did I not say thatwith it as my shield I could conquer the universe?"
"Mark," she murmured, "you are hurt?"
"Not much, dear heart," he replied with that quaint laugh of his whichsuddenly turned this delicious dream into exquisite reality, "kind handshave tended me and gave me some clean clothing. I would have had you inmy arms ere now, but was too dirty an object to appear before you."
Then the laughter died out from his eyes, they became intent, searching,desperately anxious.
"Madonna," he whispered--and he who for three days had faced every kindof danger, trembled now with apprehension--"what you said to mymother--a moment ago--did you mean it?"
"Your love, Mark," she murmured in reply, "is all that I live for now."
Then he folded her in his arms once more.
"Mother, dear," he said, "you must love her too. My whole happinesshangs upon her kiss."
EPILOGUE
Many there are who hold to the belief that the death of Alva would havesaved the unfortunate Netherlanders many more months of woe andoppression at his hands, and that mayhap it would have deterred theroyal despot over in Madrid from further acts of perfidious tyranny.
Therefore Mark van Rycke--the responsible leader of the successfulinsurrection of Ghent--has often been blamed for his leniency to a manwho--if he had been victorious--would not have spared a single woman orchild in the city.
With the right and wrongs of that contention this chronicle hath noconcern. Mark van Rycke led the men of Ghent to victory, and havingdone that he fell sick from wounds and exhaustion, and after beinghastily tended by his friends, he was taken home where for many days hehovered between life and death.
It was the civic dignitaries--the High-Bailiff, the Aldermen andSheriffs of the Keure who assumed the responsibility of dealing with thetyrant, and they remained true apparently to their principles ofconciliation and of loyalty, for within two days of their heroic anddesperate stand for liberty and while the ruins of their beautiful citywere still smouldering, the men of Ghent had the mortification of seeingthe Duke of Alva ride--humiliated but unscathed--out of the town.
Just as fifty years ago the town of Brueges held the ArchdukeMaximilian, King of the Romans, a prisoner till he ordered thewithdrawal of all foreign troops from their gates, so did the men ofGhent now exact the same undertaking from the Duke of Alva.
For the moment Ghent was freed from the immediate danger ofannihilation, and the departure of Alva from Belgium less than a yearlater saved her perhaps altogether from the fate of many of her sistercities; certain it is that the High-Bailiff and the older burghersextracted from their prisoners--among whom was senor de Vargas andseveral members of the Blood Council--concessions and privileges forwhich they had clamoured in vain for half a century; but beyond that thetyrant was allowed to go free, and against this decision of theirmagistrates and their Griet Mannen the heroes of the insurrection didnot raise a protest. Perhaps they had suffered too much to thirst foractive revenge.
END