A STRANGER IN A STRANGE LAND
I
A week later was the marriage solemnised between donna Lenora de Vargas
and Mark van Rycke, son of the High-Bailiff of Ghent.
The religious ceremony took place in the abbey church of St. Bavon in
the presence of several members of the Grand Council and of all the high
functionaries of the city. Nothing had been spared to make the occasion
a magnificent and imposing one. The union between the two young people
was known to have the warm approval of the King himself: His Holiness
the Pope had sent a special blessing to the bride and bridegroom, whilst
the Captain-General had granted the use of a number of picked troops to
render the display more gorgeous. Seven hundred and fifty arquebusiers,
spearmen and halberdiers lined the route of the bridal procession
between the town-house and the church: they were dressed in the heraldic
colours of the city of Ghent, one leg blue and the other yellow, and
wore enormous hats with huge feathers dyed in the two colours.
The Regent too had graciously lent his court musicians for the occasion
and they headed the procession with full orchestra playing the newest
motets. The church itself had been magnificently decorated with
tapestries, and a huge concourse of people lined the streets in order to
view all this pomp and magnificence.
After the religious ceremony a grand banquet was held in the great hall
of the Town House at which eighty-four privileged guests were bidden.
It was served at separate tables each laid for a dozen guests, and
consisted of twenty-five courses--which were both varied and succulent.
There were fowls stewed in milk and dressed with sweetmeats and spices,
there were pickled partridges and pastries, sausages and omelettes of
every kind, whilst huge flagons of iced beer and Rhenish wines added to
the conviviality of the entertainment.
Senor de Vargas presided at the chief table, and he had the bride on his
right and the bridegroom on his left. The High-Bailiff also sat at this
table as did Madame his wife and Messire Laurence van Rycke, and every
one remarked that senor de Vargas was in high good-humour and that he
bestowed marked evidences of his favour both upon the High-Bailiff and
upon the bridegroom.
During the banquet the court musicians discoursed sweet music; in fact
everything was done not only with decorum but with liberality: this was
the first union between a noted and highly placed Spanish family and an
equally distinguished patrician house of Flanders, and in a brief toast,
tankard in hand, senor de Vargas expressed the hope that it might prove
the precursor of a great many more.
Those present at the feast remarked moreover that the bride was
beautiful beyond powers of description, that the bridegroom looked as
usual, as if he had been spending half his nights in the taverns, and
that Messire Laurence van Rycke looked pale and sick.
But nothing of any grave moment occurred during the length of this
exciting and strenuous day. After the banquet the tables were cleared
and many more guests arrived to take part in a grand reunion and ball
which lasted well into the night. But neither the bride or bridegroom
nor any of the grand Spanish seigniors stayed for that: a small
procession was formed soon after the conclusion of the banquet,
consisting of the parents of bride and bridegroom flanked by a guard of
honour, which conducted the young couple from the Town House to the
residence of the High-Bailiff, which was to remain their home until such
time as a more fitting permanent abode could be provided for them.
II
And now the escort had taken leave of the young people: don Juan de
Vargas and the High-Bailiff had to return to their guests at the Town
House and Clemence van Rycke had gone to rest. The arquebusiers had
gone and the serving men and women--with the exception of Pierre and
Jeanne--had gone to watch the illuminations and to listen to the strains
of the orchestra which could be heard quite plainly through the open
windows of the Town House.
Clemence van Rycke had conducted the bride upstairs to the
nuptial-chamber. With her own hands she had drawn a high-backed chair
close to the fire and made the young girl sit down. Mark then placed a
footstool to her feet and a down cushion to her back.
Lenora accepted all these little attentions without a word, but with a
grateful smile. She was far too tired to speak, and when Clemence
finally kissed her on the forehead and whispered a motherly: "God bless
you, my child!" she could hardly murmur a feeble "Good-night!" in reply.
Then Madame van Rycke went away, and the house seemed suddenly to become
very still. Lenora was still in her bridal gown, which was of stiff
white brocade, with very high starched collar and hard stomacher that
cramped her movements and made her sides ache. Her hair had been combed
away from her forehead and only a few unruly curls lay moist against her
brow: her delicate skin rebelled against the conventional white and pink
unguents which the careful fingers of a highly-trained waiting woman had
laid upon her cheeks and lips, and the dark lines of a black pencil
round her lashes could not add lustre to her luminous dark eyes which,
despite fatigue, shone with marvellous brilliancy.
She sat with hands folded before her, staring into the fire, and the
flames in wanton frolic threw a golden glow upon her face and her gown
and deep blue shadows all around her. Mark van Rycke--unseen by
her--stood at the other end of the monumental hearth, one arm resting
against the ledge, his head against his hand, so that his face was
completely in shadow and she could not know that he was watching her.
"You are tired, Madonna?" he asked after a little while, and she
replied, pathetically, like a child about to cry:
"Very tired, Messire."
"It has been a long and trying day for you," he continued lightly. "I
confess to being very tired myself, and as soon as Jeanne comes to wait
on you, I would beg of you that I might take my leave."
Then as she said nothing, but continued to stare into the fire in a
listless manner, he added a little impatiently:
"Jeanne will not be long; she attends upon my mother every night, but
will be at your service directly. Can you put up with my company,
Madonna, till she come?"
"I am at your service, Messire," she rejoined stiffly, "if there is
aught you wish to say to me."
"How cold you are, sweetheart," he said good-humouredly. "It would seem
as if we were still in the presence of that awe-inspiring duenna of
yours: what was her name?--I forget--but by the Mass! I tell you,
sweet, that she froze the very marrow in my bones ... and you were so
formal in her presence too--brrrr!--it makes me shiver to think of those
half-hours spent during the past week in such a freezing atmosphere!"
He laughed--a quaint little laugh--half merry and half shy, and after an
instant's hesitation, he drew a low chair forward and sat down in front
of the fire, close to her. Even then she did not turn to look at him.
"Had it not been for your eyes, Madonna," he said softly, "I would have
sworn that you were fashioned of marble."
Now he was leaning a little forward, his elbow resting on his knee, his
hand shading his face from the light of the fire. He was studying her
face closely, and thought that he had never seen any woman quite so
beautiful. "Laurence was a fool!" he was saying to himself as he took in
every detail of the perfect face, the delicate contour of the cheeks,
the pearly whiteness of the skin, the exquisite line of chin and throat,
and above all those dark, glowing, unfathomable eyes which betrayed all
the latent fire and passion which coldness of demeanour strove vainly to
conceal. "Laurence was a fool! He would have fallen madly in love with
this beautiful creature, and would have made her happy and contented
with her lot, whilst the bonds of matrimony would have sat more lightly
on him than on me."
He sighed, feeling a little sorry for himself, but nevertheless he
stretched out his hand and captured hers--an exquisitely fashioned
little hand it was, delicate to the touch and pulsating with life, like
a prisoned bird. Mark was a young man--and one who had already got out
of life most of the joys which it holds, but just for a moment he felt a
curious thrill of unaccustomed pleasure, in holding this perfect
thing--donna Lenora's hand. His own hands were strong, yet slender,
finely shaped and warm to the touch, but it must be supposed that as he
held hers, he must--quite unconsciously--have hurt her, for suddenly he
saw that she turned even whiter than she had been before, her eyes
closed and quite abruptly she withdrew her hand.
"Do I anger you, Madonna?" he asked.
"Nay, Messire," she replied coldly.
"May I not then hold your hand--for a very little while in mine?"
"If you wish."
But she did not voluntarily put her hand out to him, and he made no
second attempt to capture it.
"We do not seem to be getting along very fast," he said quaintly.
She smiled. "Seeing how we came to be together, Messire," she said, "we
were not like to have much in common."
"Yet, we shall have to pass our lives together, Madonna."
"Alas!" she sighed.
"I own that the prospect cannot be very alluring for you--it doth not
seem to suggest an interminable vista of happiness...."
"Oh!" she murmured as if involuntarily, "I was not thinking of
happiness."
"How strange," he retorted gently, "now, whenever I look at you,
Madonna, I invariably think of happiness."
"Happiness? With me?"
"With you, sweetheart, if you will but allow me to work for that object.
After all, my dear," he added with that whimsical smile of his, "we are
both young, you and I; life lies all before us. I own that we have made
a sorry beginning, that the first chapter of our book of life hath been
ill-writ and by clumsy hands. But suppose we turn over a few pages, do
you not think that we might happen on a more romantic passage?"
He drew nearer still to her, so near that as he bent toward her his knee
touched the ground and his arm instinctively stretched out behind her,
so that at the least movement on her part it would close around her and
hold her--as indeed he longed that it should do. She was so very
beautiful, and that air of settled melancholy, of childlike helplessness
and pathos in her made an irresistible appeal to him.
"Madonna," he whispered, "an you would let me, I should like to make
love to you now."
But she, with a quick, impatient jerk suddenly sat bolt upright and
freed herself almost roughly from that arm which was nearly encircling
her shoulders.
"Love!" she said with cold sarcasm. "You?"
He bit his lip and in his turn drew back: the dour look in his face
became more marked and the merry twinkle died out of his eyes: his knee
no longer touched the ground, but he remained quite self-possessed and
said, still quite good-humouredly:
"Yes, I--your husband as it happens, Madonna. Would love from me be so
very distasteful to you then?"
"I have no love for you, Messire, as you well know," she said coldly.
"I told you what my feelings were toward yon, the first time that we
met--at the Town House, the night of our betrothal."
"Yes," he owned, "you spoke very plainly then."
"And since then I have had no cause to change."
"I am as distasteful to you as I ever was?" he asked with droll
consternation.
"Oh!--not distasteful, Messire."
"Come! that's something."
"Enough, methinks."
"Not by a long way, but it is a beginning. To-day I am not altogether
distasteful--to-morrow I might e'en be tolerated ... in a week
toleration might turn to liking ... and after that, liking to..."
"Never," she broke in firmly, "I should have to forget that which is
indelibly writ upon my memory."
"And what is that?"
"That you married me without love and without wooing--bought me like a
bundle of goods just because my father is powerful and yours ambitious.
A week ago we were betrothed, Messire. Since then how hath your time
been passed?"
"In wild, ecstatic half-hours spent in the presence of your duenna and
sitting opposite to the chilliest bride in Christendom," he said
whimsically.
"And the rest of the time in the taverns of Ghent," she retorted hotly,
"and places of ill-repute."
"Who told you that?" he asked quietly.
"Oh! your reputation is well known: how could it fail to reach mine
ears."
"Evil tongues always make themselves heard, Madonna," he said, still
speaking very quietly, although now he sat quite apart from her, with
his long legs stretched out before him and his hands clasped between his
knees. "I would you had not listened."
"I would I had not heard," she assented, "for then I should not have
added one more humiliation to all those which I have had to endure."
"And I another regret," he said with a short sigh. "But even if evil
tongues spoke true, Madonna," he continued more lightly, "the shame of
my conduct would sit on me and not on you. They call me a ne'er-do-well
in the city--and have it seems done so in your hearing! Well! let me
plead guilty for the past and lay my contrition at your feet."
Once more the more gentle mood overcame him. The house was so still and
there was something quite unaccountably sweet in this sentimental
dalliance with this exquisitely beautiful woman who was his
wife--sentimental indeed, for though she appeared cold and even cruelly
sarcastic, he felt the strength of a fine nature in her. Here was no
mere doll, mere puppet and slave of man content to take her lot as her
family or her husband chose to shape it--content to endure or accept a
husband's love without more return than passive obedience and
meaningless kisses. At the back of his mind he still thought Laurence a
fool, and felt how well suited two such warm natures would have been to
one another, but for the moment a strange desire seized him, to win a
kind look from this beautiful woman on his own account, to see her smile
on him, willingly and confidingly, to win her friendship and her trust,
even though no warmer feeling should ever crop up between him and her.
"Madonna," he said, and once again he dropped his knee to the ground and
leaned toward her so that her warm breath touched his hand, which he
placed upon hers, "there are many men in the world who ne'er do well
because they have been left to the companionship of those who do equally
badly. Will you deign to believe that all the evil that is in me lies
very much on the surface? They call me wild and extravagant--even my
mother calls me careless and shallow--but if you smiled on me, Madonna,
methinks that something which lies buried deep down in my heart would
stir me to an effort to become worthy of you."
His voice--habitually somewhat rough and always slightly ironical--was
wonderfully gentle now. Instinctively, perhaps even against her will,
Lenora turned her head slowly round and looked at him. He had never
before looked so straight and closely into her eyes; and, as she bore
his scrutinising glance, the warm blood slowly mounted to her cheeks.
Her face was partly in shadow, only the outline of her small head was
outlined by the ruddy glow of the fire, and the tiny ear shone,
transparent and crimson, like a shell, with the golden tendrils of her
fair hair gently stirring in the draught from the wide, open hearth.
As she was excited and perhaps a little frightened, her breath came and
went rapidly, and her lips were slightly parted showing a faint glimmer
of pearly teeth beyond. Mark felt a sudden rush of blood to his head; to
be alone with this adorable woman so close to him, to feel her panting
like a young creature full of life and passion, slightly leaning against
his arm, to look into those wonderful, dark eyes and know that she was
his, was indeed more than man could endure in cold blood.
The next moment he had caught her with irresistible masterfulness in
both his arms and drawn her down to him as he knelt, whilst his eager
lips sought hers with a mad longing for a kiss. But with an agonised
cry of horror, she pushed him away with all her feeble might. For a
moment she struggled in his arms like a wild creature panting for
liberty and murmuring mad, incoherent words: "Let me go! Let me go! I
hate you!"--the next, she was already free, and he had struggled to his
feet. Now he stood at some little distance from her, looking down on
her with a scared gaze and passing his hand mechanically backwards and
forwards across his brow.
"Your pardon, Madonna," he murmured, "I did not understand that you
could hate me so."
The fire was burning low, and the two candles in tall sconces at the
further end of the room threw but a fitful light upon that hunched up
young figure in the big, high-backed chair, cowering there half
frightened at her own violence, tired out with emotion, her nerves
quivering after the final, tense moment which had left her exhausted and
almost unconscious.
Mark could only see her dimly; the stiff folds of her wedding gown and
the high starched collar were alone visible in the gloom; she had hidden
her face in the cushion of the chair. Presently a sob rose to her
throat, and then another, and soon she was crying just like a tired
child. Mark felt that he had been a brute and was seized with an
infinite pity for her.
"Madonna," he said gently, "I think I can hear Jeanne's footstep in the
corridor. May I call to her to come and attend on you?"
"I thank you, Messire," murmured Lenora, who was making a great effort
to swallow her tears.
"Then I pray you dry your eyes," he pleaded, "I would be so ashamed if
Jeanne saw that I had made you cry."
She looked up and even in the gloom he thought that he could see a swift
smile pass across her face.
"To-morrow an you desire," he continued more lightly, "your old dragon
Inez shall be here to wait on you, until then I trust that you will not
feel too lonely, away from those you care for. My mother is an angel.
You will love her, I think, and my brother Laurence is learned and
well-read ... my father too is kind. We will all strive, Madonna, to
make you somewhat more contented with your lot."
"You mistake, Messire," she stammered, "I..."
But already he had bowed before her and bidden her a formal good-night.
She had meant to give him her hand and to ask his forgiveness, for
indeed she had behaved like an ill-tempered child--a bad beginning for
the role which she had sworn to play--but he had gone, and before she
could call him back he was speeding down the corridor and anon she heard
him loudly calling to Jeanne.
III
Lenora did not see her husband during the whole of the next day, and on
the one occasion when she ventured to ask after him--with well-feigned
indifference lest any one guessed that all was not well between
them--Clemence van Rycke sighed, Messire the High-Bailiff gave a forced
laugh and Laurence van Rycke frowned with obvious anger. And in the
evening--when she retired to her room and felt strangely irritable and
hurt at being left in such solitude--she questioned Inez, who had been
allowed to come and wait on her and who had a marvellous faculty for
gleaning all the gossip that was going about the town.
"They do say, my angel," said the old woman with that complacency which
characterises your true gossip, "that Messire Mark van Rycke hath spent
his whole day in the tavern opposite. It is known as the 'Three
Weavers,' and many Spanish officers are quartered in there now."
"Heaven protect us!" ejaculated Lenora involuntarily, "I trust they did
not quarrel."
"Quarrel, my saint?" retorted Inez with a spiteful little laugh, for she
had no liking for these Netherlanders. "Nay! Messire van Rycke would
not dare quarrel with a Spanish officer. No! no! it seems that the
_tapperij_ of the 'Three Weavers' was most convivial all the day. It is
always frequented by Spanish officers, although the inn-keeper is said
to be an abominable heretic: there was much gambling and heavy drinking
there, so they say, and even now..."
And as if to confirm the old woman's say, there came from the house
opposite and through the open windows loud noise of gay laughter and
hilarious song. A deep flush rose to Lenora's face.
"Close that window, Inez," she said peremptorily, "the night hath turned
chilly."
She went to sit by the fire, and curtly dismissed the gossiping old
woman. She knew all that she had wanted to know, and the flush of shame
deepened on her cheek. There had been times during the past week when a
vague hope had stirred in her heart that mayhap life did hold a small
measure of happiness for her. There were times when she did not
altogether dislike Mark van Rycke, when that winning merriment and
good-humour which always lurked in his eyes provoked a response in her
own ... and others, when certain notes of gentleness in his voice caused
a strange thrill in her heart and brought tears into her eyes, which
were not altogether tears of sorrow. She had also felt deeply
remorseful at her conduct last night at the cruel words: "I hate you!"
which she had flung so roughly in his face: indeed she could scarcely
sleep all night, for she was persistently haunted by the dazed look in
those merry, grey eyes of his which had just for one brief moment
flashed tender reproach on her.
But now she felt nothing but shame--shame that she should ever have
thought tenderly of a man who could so wrong her, who had so little
thought of her that he could spend his whole day in a tavern whilst his
young girl-bride was left to loneliness and boredom in a house where she
was a total stranger. She thought him vindictive and cruel: already she
had thought so last night when he went away hurriedly without waiting
for the apology which was hovering on her lips. Now she was quite sure
that she hated him, and the next time she told him so, she certainly
would not regret it.
But somehow she felt more forlorn than she had been before that dotard
Inez had filled her ears with gossip. The house as usual was very
still, but Lenora knew that the family had not yet gone to rest. Awhile
ago she thought that she had heard footsteps and a murmur of voices in
the hall below. A desire for company seized the young girl, and she
racked her brain for an excuse to go down to her mother-in-law, who she
knew was kind and who perhaps would cheer and comfort her a little and
give her kind pity in her loneliness.