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: "G.o.d 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 l.u.s.tre 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 Ma.s.s! 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sage?"
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."