“TWO LOVERS”

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 452, 6 September 1928, Page 5

“TWO LOVERS”

A NOVELETTE

fc = By

ALICE D. G. MILLER.

From her photoplay “Two Lovers,” produced bv Samuel Goldwyn and presenting g, /I ' Ronald Colman and Vilma Bankv. WJ Based on the Novel “Leatherface,” by Baroness Orezy.

CHAPTER I. The Duke of Azar rubbed bis hands gleefully as he looked from the high ■window of the Casteel that commanded a sweeping view of the rolling pastures and woodlands that surrounded Ghent. On the drawbridge below a group of Spanish soldiers, their helmets glistening in the sun, were making fast the hands and feet of a terrified Flemish peasant. The wretch’s eyes, stark with horror, were fixed on the muddy slime of the swamp that crawled below. His lips sdught feebly to mumble ? Prayer as the soldiers roughly hoisted him to the edge of the bridge. In less than ten seconds it was all over - A 4 sudden push, a dull splash, and the oozing slime had closed hungrily around the fettered body, sucktus it out of sight. The Duke of Azar laughed again, as f> e turned away from the window. A all, handsome figure he was, richly rlad after the court fashion of 1572. his velvet tunic was heavily embroidPred. A gold chain, finely wrought, •"mg over his shoulders. Three Spansa orders blazed on his breast. He wore his dark beard in a fashionable point and his hair cropped ose. Tim round black eyes that litti 6< J now with satisfaction held He in them of friendliness or mercy. He walked back to the five men e *ted at the table. Azar. dreaded InPf ls * t ° r over the persecuted peasantry Ghent, was in session with his Council of Blood. v ' 6 will drown these gold-seeking rs i n their own swamp,” he tab? * re< *’ banging his fist on the bv " not one a time, like this, hut the) e hurKlr ed. At the first proof of like a is,oyalty t 0 Spain they shall die t . ® “°Bs. Once William of Orange is v *. tUr ed Spain will march onward in p conquest of the world. * . thousand curses on their Leatherlav ® ut or intervention I should , in , e ca Ptured Prince William a dozen er c this. Only yesterday did

Ramon fie Linea pursue him to a cottage ou the highway to Brussels. But Leather-face had been there not five brief minutes sooner and the prince escaped. A thousand guelders do I offer for this Leatherface, dead or alive, and yet the poverty-stricken burghers fear to speak. Azar tuggiecl impatiently at his beard. _ “Methinks this same young Ramon pursues oft in vain,’ snickered the bent-up councillor on Asar’s right. His toothless gums leered. “Is it not he that is suitor also for the fair band of Donna Lenora de Vargas, your lovely niece, who will arrive this daj from Spain?” “Pali!” retorted Azar, An idle romance. I have other plans for my Hardly were the words spoken when the heavy doors at the far end of the chamber swung open. A soldier, m armour stood at attention at either side of the doorway. “By your Grace’s leave,” announced one, “the Donna Lenora de Vargas.” And the next minute there stood on the threshold a vision of such surpassing loveliness as may be seen sometimes in dreams or in the songs oi poets. Verily, the Flower of Spam, was a blossom of fairest order. Beneath her plumed cap there nodded a riot of golden curls. Her eyes were violet shaded with thick brown lashes. Her skin was of the texture o f the rose and her beautiful mouth, parted now in a slight smile, revealed two rows of pearly teeth. Around her graceful figure was wrapped a flowing travelling cloak, handsomely embroil*ered. . , “\h gentlemen,’ said Azar, aclvancing to meet the visitor, “My niece, Donna Lenora de Vargas. He oem forward and kissed the lovely jewelled hand extended him. There was a shadow of repulsion in the violet eyes as they observed the sinister group before them. But Leu ora bowed low as her uncle made the formal presentations. After mutual courtesies had been exchanged Azai

placed his niece in the carved chair at the head of the table. Ayith a shrewdly calculating look bent on his niece he began: “I sent for you Lenora, because it is in your power to do a great service for our noble king and country. In your hands, my dear, rests the fate of Ghent. So I would advise you that I have arranged for your marriage with Mark Van Rycke, son of the High Bailiff of this town.” ■ “Aly—my marriage,” she stammered in bewilderment, “but I do not desire to marry this Bailiff’s son. I do not know him. I—I—” “You need have no fear, my dear,”

Hundreds of pretty girls will envy you your chance, senorita.” Lenora shuddered. “Only by this means,” continued Azar, “can we avoid continued bloddshed on either side. Enough lives have already been lost. Your country asks for peace——” The voice of Azar droned on, cunning, smooth, insidious. The eager, greedy faces of the group swam before Lenora’s eyes. For Spain? Could it he that for her king and country she must renounce her hope for future happiness, renounce Ramon whom she so admired, ruin two lives that a thousand unknowns

interrupted the crafty Azar, “At the first sign of disloyalty on the part of your husband the marriage will be annulled and you will be free to return to Spain.” “I am told that he is a handsome young fellow, this Van Rycke,” croaked the toothless Councillor, with a knowing leer at Lenora. “And rich, too,” added another, for generations the Van Rycke’s have been the High Bailiffs of Ghent, leaders socially and politically of the town.

: might be spared. For king! For : country! Her uncle had ceased speaking. All l heads were turned expectantly toward her. For a minute or two there was a dead silence as Lenora stared . straight before her. Her face gave no hint of the conflict that seethed beneath her breast. For Ramon? Or • for Spain? Suddenly she drew herself up proudly. “Since it is for the welfare of Spain,

you have left me no choice,” she said in clear, expressionless tones. “It must be as you say.” CHAPTER 11. A picturesque assembly it was that a week later filled the grand hall of the Casteel. Soldiers in gleaming armour, two abreast, lined the stone walls, poleaxes in hand. Aristocrats in richest robes, simple burghers and peasantry crowded at one end of the vast hall. All eyes were turned toward the dais, where beside the triumphant Azar stood Donna Lenora, the Flower of Spain, a shimmering - vision in white. Her dress, rising to a highpointed collar behind her lovely neck, was of the finest Sp-anish lace. Around her throat and draped around her slender waist were ropes of matchless pearls. From her glittering headdress a short veil shaded her eyes, mysterious and inscrutable. Suddenly the buzz of the assembled guests died down. The minstrels plucked their strings. The bridegroom had entered. A noble figure indeed was young Mark Van Rycke. Scion of a family as' proud as the de Vargas, he bore himself with the distinguished carriage of a soldier and an aristocrat. His tunic of white satin and velvet sat to perfection on his broad shoulders and lithe figure. But his handsome countenance was masked by an air of infinite boredom as he walked slowly toward the dais. On one side was his mother, her eyes fixed straight before her. On the other walked the High Bailiff. Not a sign did they give of the bitterness in their hearts at the prospect of the alliance of their only son with a hated house of Spain. As they neared the dais the three bowed low to Azar. The Duke acknowledged the courtesy with an answering' bow. He scanned- the face of the bridegroom with a look of cruel amusement, sensing how little to his liking was this celebration. Mark stared blandly back. Not once did his eyes seek the face of his prospective bride. The High Bailiff stepped forward. “According to the Spanish custom,” he began formally, “I hereby ask for my son the. hand*of your niece.” He took the cold hand of Donna Lenora, kissed it and placed it in the hand of his son. Mark raised the hand'to his lips. It was a beautiful hand, fragile and white, with a single pearl on the third finger. Curiosity to determine whether the face of its owner were so fair as the lovely hand overcame the resolutions of the bridegroom. Even as his lips touched the satiny surface and -inhaled the delicate perfume?his dark eyes wandered for the first time to the face of the Flower of Spain. Mark stared his astonishment. Could it be that this exquisite creature be-

fore him was in truth his bride, and not the sleek, dark maiden of his imaginings? Was it this superbly lovely girl, with the golden curls and mysterious violet eyes, whom they called The Flower of Spain? He raised the hand to his lips a second time and kissed it with a fervor that brought a Quick, unwilling blush to the damask cheek of Lenora. Azar was speaking. “In the name of the King,” he intoned monotonously, “I do with these emblems plight thee Mark Van Rycke to my niece Lenora de Vargas.” So saying he handed to the bridegroom the plumed hat and jewelled sword of the marriage ceremonial. And the simple, but impressive, ceremony that united the houses of Van Rycke and de Vargas, was over. It was late in the evening, however, before the festivities had drawn to a close and Mark was finally permitted to escort his bride to her chamber. With his own hands had the groom gathered the choicest blooms to deck the bridal bower. Roses hung in profusion from the walls. On the satin counterpane over the carved mahogany bed were scattered a shower of rose petals. Over the windows and doorways garlands -were hung. Silently Lenora permitted her husband to unfasten the heavy headdress that she had worn throughout the evening, but she shrank back as his hands sought to caress the wealth of golden curls released from their imprisonment. For a moment they stood looking at each other in silence, each trying to fathom what was in the other’s mind. Mark smiled a trifle wistfully. “Were it not for your eyes,” he said,

looking into their violet depths,” I ( could believe you were made of; marble. You are so beautiful Madonna, and yet so sorrowful. If I could only see you smile!” Lenora said nothing. She turned her eyes away and stared before her into the fireplace. “The first moment I beheld you,” continued Mark tenderly, “love walked into my heart. I will try to make you happy if you will only let me. Why j are you so cold to me? You are my wife.” Lenora laughed harshly. “Yes, that is true enough," she re- j plied bitterly. “I am your wife. You have your rights, I suppose.” A hurt look came into Mark’s eyes. “I don’t want rights,” he said abruptly, “I want love.” Lenora bit her lip. She left the fireplace and walked over to her husband. “Then there is something that I must tell you,” she said, shortly, “I; can never love you. I—l love another. ’ Mark stepped back as though he had been struck. For a moment he remained perfectly still. Only the work ing of his throat testified to the emotional struggle that was going on inside him. Then he picked up his hat and cloak from the chair on which he had cast them. “Poor little Flower of Spain,” lie said, gently kissing her hand. “It wasn’t fair of them.” The door closed Lenora was alone again. The cold, haughty pose that she had maintained dropped from her like a mantle. Her lip trembled. Her eyes filled. " Suddenly she sank on her knees beside the flower-strewn bridal bed. “Dear Lord,” she sobbed uncontainedly, “What shall I do? What shall I do?”- - .

Creak—creak —creak. A stealthy sound of footsteps wakened Lenora suddenly from her sleep. She sat upright in bed listening. All seemed to be still again. She had been dreaming uneasily of Ramon. It was a week now since the sudden death of Ramon. He had been murdered on her bridal night, stabbed to the heart by the mysterious Leatherface. But this time Leatherface did not escape unscathed- With his dying breath Ramon had told how he had wounded his assailant in the left forearm. Ghent was being searched for him. Had she really loved Ramon? Lenora checked herself in the disloyal thought. For a week now she had been the wife of Mark Van Rycke. No one could have been kinder or more considerate than the husband whom she so coldly spurned. Kver polite, ever attentive to her slightest wish, the bailiff's son was beginning, dej spite her resolutions, to win a friendly : smile from her ever and again. She : found herself listening with quick- ! ened pulse to the sound of his voice i and step. I Creak —creak. There it was again. This was not j Mark’s step stealing so cautiously ' down the stairs below her room. (To be continued.)