Book: Lysbeth

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"Friends," he went on in a still more solemn voice, "the rest of my
story is short. Indeed I do congratulate myself on the decision that
I took, for when confronted with the prisoner our young and honourable
hostess was able upon oath to refute the story of the spy with the
result that I in my turn was to save an unfortunate, and, as I believe,
a half-crazed creature from an immediate and a cruel death. Is it not
so, lady?" and helpless in the net of circumstance, not knowing indeed
what else to do, Lysbeth bowed her head in assent.

"I think," concluded Montalvo, "that after this explanation, what may
have appeared to be a breach of manners will be forgiven. I have only
one other word to add. My position is peculiar; I am an official here,
and I speak boldly among friends taking the risk that any of you present
will use what I say against me, which for my part I do not believe.
Although there is no better Catholic and no truer Spaniard in the
Netherlands, I have been accused of showing too great a sympathy with
your people, and of dealing too leniently with those who have incurred
the displeasure of our Holy Church. In the cause of right and justice I
am willing to bear such aspersions; still this is a slanderous world, a
world in which truth does not always prevail. Therefore, although I have
told you nothing but the bare facts, I do suggest in the interests of
your hostess--in my own humble interest who might be misrepresented, and
I may add in the interest of every one present at this board--that it
will perhaps be well that the details of the story which I have had the
honour of telling you should not be spread about--that they should in
fact find a grave within these walls? Friends, do you agree?"

Then moved by a common impulse, and by a common if a secret fear, with
the single exception of Lysbeth, every person present, yes, even the
cautious and far-seeing young Van de Werff, echoed "We agree."

"Friends," said Montalvo, "those simple words carry to my mind
conviction deep as any vow however solemn; deep, if that were possible,
as did the oath of your hostess, upon the faith of which I felt myself
justified in acquitting the poor creature who was alleged to be an
escaped heretic." Then with a courteous and all-embracing bow Montalvo
sat down.

"What a good man! What a delightful man!" murmured Aunt Clara to Dirk in
the buzz of conversation which ensued.

"Yes, yes, cousin, but----"

"And what discrimination he has, what taste! Did you notice what he said
about the cooking?"

"I heard something, but----"

"It is true that folk have told me that my capon stewed in milk, such
as we had to-night--Why, lad, what is the matter with your doublet? You
fidget me by continually rubbing at it."

"You have upset the red wine over it, that is all," answered Dirk,
sulkily. "It is spoiled."

"And little loss either; to tell you the truth, Dirk, I never saw a coat
worse cut. You young men should learn in the matter of clothes from
the Spanish gentlemen. Look at his Excellency, the Count Montalvo, for
instance----"

"See here, aunt," broke in Dirk with suppressed fury, "I think I have
heard enough about Spaniards and the Captain Montalvo for one night.
First of all he spirits off Lysbeth and is absent with her for four
hours; then he invites himself to supper and places himself at the head
of the table with her, setting me down to the dullest meal I ever ate at
the other end----"

"Cousin Dirk," said Aunt Clara with dignity, "your temper has got the
better of your manners. Certainly you might learn courtesy as well as
dress, even from so humble a person as a Spanish hidalgo and commander."
Then she rose from the table, adding--"Come, Lysbeth, if you are ready,
let us leave these gentlemen to their wine."

After the ladies had gone the supper went on merrily. In those days,
nearly everybody drank too much liquor, at any rate at feasts, and this
company was no exception. Even Montalvo, his game being won and the
strain on his nerves relaxed, partook pretty freely, and began to talk
in proportion to his potations. Still, so clever was the man that in his
cups he yet showed a method, for his conversation revealed a sympathy
with Netherlander grievances and a tolerance of view in religious
matters rarely displayed by a Spaniard.

From such questions they drifted into a military discussion, and
Montalvo, challenged by Van de Werff, who, as it happened, had not
drunk too much wine, explained how, were he officer in command, he would
defend Leyden from attack by an overwhelming force. Very soon Van de
Werff saw that he was a capable soldier who had studied his profession,
and being himself a capable civilian with a thirst for knowledge pressed
the argument from point to point.

"And suppose," he asked at length, "that the city were starving and
still untaken, so that its inhabitants must either fall into the hands
of the enemy or burn the place over their heads, what would you do
then?"

"Then, Mynheer, if I were a small man I should yield to the clamour of
the starving folk and surrender----"

"And if you were a big man, captain?"

"If I were a big man--ah! if I were a big man, why then--I should cut
the dykes and let the sea beat once more against the walls of Leyden. An
army cannot live in salt water, Mynheer."

"That would drown out the farmers and ruin the land for twenty years."

"Quite so, Mynheer, but when the corn has to be saved, who thinks of
spoiling the straw?"

"I follow you, Senor, your proverb is good, although I have never heard
it."

"Many good things come from Spain, Mynheer, including this red wine. One
more glass with you, for, if you will allow me to say it, you are a man
worth meeting over a beaker--or a blade."

"I hope that you will always retain the same opinion of me," answered
Van de Werff as he drank, "at the trencher or in the trenches."

Then Pieter went home, and before he slept that night made careful notes
of all the Spaniard's suggested military dispositions, both of attackers
and attacked, writing underneath them the proverb about the corn and the
straw. There existed no real reason why he should have done so, as he
was only a civilian engaged in business, but Pieter van de Werff chanced
to be a provident young man who knew many things might happen which
could not precisely be foreseen. As it fell out in after years, a time
came when he was able to put Montalvo's advice to good use. All readers
of the history of the Netherlands know how the Burgomaster Pieter van de
Werff saved Leyden from the Spanish.

As for Dirk van Goorl, he sought his lodging rather tipsy, and
arm-in-arm with none other than Captain the Count Don Juan de Montalvo.



CHAPTER IV

THREE WAKINGS

There were three persons in Leyden whose reflections when they awoke on
the morning after the sledge race are not without interest, at any rate
to the student of their history. First there was Dirk van Goorl, whose
work made an early riser of him--to say nothing of a splitting headache
which on this morning called him into consciousness just as the clock in
the bell tower was chiming half-past four. Now there are few things more
depressing than to be awakened by a bad headache at half-past four
in the black frost of a winter dawn. Yet as Dirk lay and thought a
conviction took hold of him that his depression was not due entirely to
the headache or to the cold.

One by one he recalled the events of yesterday. First he had been late
for this appointment with Lysbeth, which evidently vexed her. Then the
Captain Montalvo had swooped down and carried her away, as a hawk bears
off a chicken under the very eyes of the hen-wife, while he--donkey that
he was--could find no words in which to protest. Next, thinking it his
duty to back the sledge wherein Lysbeth rode, although it was driven
by a Spaniard, he had lost ten florins on that event, which, being a
thrifty young man, did not at all please him. The rest of the fete
he had spent hunting for Lysbeth, who mysteriously vanished with the
Spaniard, an unentertaining and even an anxious pastime. Then came the
supper, when once more the Count swooped down on Lysbeth, leaving him
to escort his Cousin Clara, whom he considered an old fool and disliked,
and who, having spoilt his new jacket by spilling wine over it, ended by
abusing his taste in dress. Nor was that all--he had drunk a great deal
more strong wine than was wise, for to this his head certified. Lastly
he had walked home arm in arm with his lady-snatching Spaniard, and by
Heaven! yes, he had sworn eternal friendship with him on the doorstep.

Well, there was no doubt that the Count was an uncommonly good
fellow--for a Spaniard. As for that story of the foul he had explained
it quite satisfactorily, and he had taken his beating like a gentleman.
Could anything be nicer or in better feeling than his allusions to
Cousin Pieter in his after-supper speech? Also, and this was a graver
matter, the man had shown that he was tolerant and kindly by the way
in which he dealt with the poor creature called the Mare, a woman whose
history Dirk knew well; one whose sufferings had made of her a crazy and
rash-tongued wanderer, who, so it was rumoured, could use a knife.

In fact, for the truth may as well be told at once, Dirk was a Lutheran,
having been admitted to that community two years before. To be a
Lutheran in those days, that is in the Netherlands, meant, it need
scarcely be explained, that you walked the world with a halter round
your neck and a vision of the rack and the stake before your eyes;
circumstances under which religion became a more earnest and serious
thing than most people find it in this century. Still even at that date
the dreadful penalties attaching to the crime did not prevent many of
the burgher and lower classes from worshipping God in their own fashion.
Indeed, if the truth had been known, of those who were present at
Lysbeth's supper on the previous night more than half, including Pieter
van de Werff, were adherents of the New Faith.

To dismiss religious considerations, however, Dirk could have wished
that this kindly natured Spaniard was not quite so good-looking or quite
so appreciative of the excellent points of the young Leyden ladies,
and especially of Lysbeth's, with whose sterling character, he now
remembered, Montalvo had assured him he was much impressed. What he
feared was that this regard might be reciprocal. After all a Spanish
hidalgo in command of the garrison was a distinguished person, and,
alas! Lysbeth also was a Catholic. Dirk loved Lysbeth; he loved her with
that patient sincerity which was characteristic of his race and his own
temperament, but in addition to and above the reasons that have been
given already it was this fact of the difference of religion which
hitherto had built a wall between them. Of course she was unaware of
anything of the sort. She did not know even that he belonged to the New
Faith, and without the permission of the elders of his sect, he would
not dare to tell her, for the lives of men and of their families could
not be confided lightly to the hazard of a girl's discretion.

Herein lay the real reason why, although Dirk was so devoted to Lysbeth,
and although he imagined that she was not indifferent to him, as yet no
word had passed between them of love or marriage. How could he who was
a Lutheran ask a Catholic to become his wife without telling her the
truth? And if he told her the truth, and she consented to take the risk,
how could he drag her into that dreadful net? Supposing even that she
kept to her own faith, which of course she would be at liberty to do,
although equally, of course, he was bound to try to convert her, their
children, if they had any, must be brought up in his beliefs. Then,
sooner or later, might come the informer, that dreadful informer whose
shadow already lay heavy upon thousands of homes in the Netherlands, and
after the informer the officer, and after the officer the priest, and
after the priest the judge, and after the judge--the executioner and the
stake.

In this case, what would happen to Lysbeth? She might prove herself
innocent of the horrible crime of heresy, if by that time she was
innocent, but what would life become to the loving young woman whose
husband and children, perhaps, had been haled off to the slaughter
chambers of the Papal Inquisition? This was the true first cause why
Dirk had remained silent, even when he was sorely tempted to speak; yes,
although his instinct told him that his silence had been misinterpreted
and set down to over-caution, or indifference, or to unnecessary
scruples.

The next to wake up that morning was Lysbeth, who, if she was not
troubled with headache resulting from indulgence--and in that day
women of her class sometimes suffered from it--had pains of her own to
overcome. When sifted and classified these pains resolved themselves
into a sense of fiery indignation against Dirk van Goorl. Dirk had been
late for his appointment, alleging some ridiculous excuse about the
cooling of a bell, as though she cared whether the bell were hot or
cold, with the result that she had been thrown into the company of that
dreadful Martha the Mare. After the Mare--aggravated by Black Meg--came
the Spaniard. Here again Dirk had shown contemptible indifference and
insufficiency, for he allowed her to be forced into the Wolf sledge
against her will. Nay, he had actually consented to the thing. Next,
in a fateful sequence followed all the other incidents of that hideous
carnival; the race, the foul, if it was a foul; the dreadful nightmare
vision called into her mind by the look upon Montalvo's face; the trial
of the Mare, her own unpremeditated but indelible perjury; the lonely
drive with the man who compelled her to it; the exhibition of herself
before all the world as his willing companion; and the feast in which he
appeared as her cavalier, and was accepted of the simple company almost
as an angel entertained by chance.

What did he mean? Doubtless, for on that point she could scarcely be
mistaken, he meant to make love to her, for had he not in practice said
as much? And now--this was the terrible thing--she was in his power,
since if he chose to do so, without doubt he could prove that she had
sworn a false oath for her own purposes. Also that lie weighed upon her
mind, although it had been spoken in a good cause; if it was good to
save a wretched fanatic from the fate which, were the truth known,
without doubt her crime deserved.

Of course, the Spaniard was a bad man, if an attractive one, and he had
behaved wickedly, if with grace and breeding; but who expected anything
else from a Spaniard, who only acted after his kind and for his own
ends? It was Dirk--Dirk--that was to blame, not so much--and here again
came the rub--for his awkwardness and mistakes of yesterday, as for his
general conduct. Why had he not spoken to her before, and put her beyond
the reach of such accidents as these to which a woman of her position
and substance must necessarily be exposed? The saints knew that she had
given him opportunity enough. She had gone as far as a maiden might, and
not for all the Dirks on earth would she go one inch further. Why
had she ever come to care for his foolish face? Why had she refused
So-and-so, and So-and-so and So-and-so--all of them honourable men--with
the result that now no other bachelor ever came near her, comprehending
that she was under bond to her cousin? In the past she had persuaded
herself that it was because of something she felt but could not see, of
a hidden nobility of character which after all was not very evident
upon the surface, that she loved Dirk van Goorl. But where was this
something, this nobility? Surely a man who was a man ought to play his
part, and not leave her in this false position, especially as
there could be no question of means. She would not have come to him
empty-handed, very far from it, indeed. Oh! were it not for the unlucky
fact that she still happened to care about him--to her sorrow--never,
never would she speak to him again.

The last of our three friends to awake on this particular morning,
between nine and ten o'clock, indeed, when Dirk had been already two
hours at his factory and Lysbeth was buying provisions in the market
place, was that accomplished and excellent officer, Captain the Count
Juan de Montalvo. For a few seconds after his dark eyes opened he stared
at the ceiling collecting his thoughts. Then, sitting up in bed, he
burst into a prolonged roar of laughter. Really the whole thing was
too funny for any man of humour to contemplate without being moved
to merriment. That gaby, Dirk van Goorl; the furiously indignant but
helpless Lysbeth; the solemn, fat-headed fools of Netherlanders at the
supper, and the fashion in which he had played his own tune on the whole
pack of them as though they were the strings of a fiddle--oh! it was
delicious.

As the reader by this time may have guessed, Montalvo was not the
typical Spaniard of romance, and, indeed, of history. He was not gloomy
and stern; he was not even particularly vengeful or bloodthirsty. On the
contrary, he was a clever and utterly unprincipled man with a sense of
humour and a gift of _bonhomie_ which made him popular in all places.
Moreover, he was brave, a good soldier; in a certain sense sympathetic,
and, strange to say, no bigot. Indeed, which seems to have been a rare
thing in those days, his religious views were so enlarged that he
had none at all. His conduct, therefore, if from time to time it
was affected by passing spasms of acute superstition, was totally
uninfluenced by any settled spiritual hopes or fears, a condition which,
he found, gave him great advantages in life. In fact, had it suited his
purpose, Montalvo was prepared, at a moment's notice, to become Lutheran
or Calvinist, or Mahomedan, or Mystic, or even Anabaptist; on the
principle, he would explain, that it is easy for the artist to paint any
picture he likes upon a blank canvas.

And yet this curious pliancy of mind, this lack of conviction, this
absolute want of moral sense, which ought to have given the Count such
great advantages in his conflict with the world, were, in reality, the
main source of his weakness. Fortune had made a soldier of the man, and
he filled the part as he would have filled any part. But nature intended
him for a play-actor, and from day to day he posed and mimed and mouthed
through life in this character or in that, though never in his
own character, principally because he had none. Still, far down in
Montalvo's being there was something solid and genuine, and that
something not good but bad. It was very rarely on view; the hand of
circumstance must plunge deep to find it, but it dwelt there; the
strong, cruel Spanish spirit which would sacrifice anything to save,
or even to advance, itself. It was this spirit that Lysbeth had seen
looking out of his eyes on the yesterday, which, when he knew that the
race was lost, had prompted him to try to kill his adversary, although
he killed himself and her in the attempt. Nor did she see it then for
the last time, for twice more at least in her life she was destined to
meet and tremble at its power.

In short, although Montalvo was a man who really disliked cruelty, he
could upon occasion be cruel to the last degree; although he appreciated
friends, and desired to have them, he could be the foulest of traitors.
Although without a cause he would do no hurt to a living thing, yet if
that cause were sufficient he would cheerfully consign a whole cityful
to death. No, not cheerfully, he would have regretted their end very
much, and often afterwards might have thought of it with sympathy
and even sorrow. This was where he differed from the majority of his
countrymen in that age, who would have done the same thing, and more
brutally, from honest principle, and for the rest of their lives
rejoiced at the memory of the deed.

Montalvo had his ruling passion; it was not war, it was not women; it
was money. But here again he did not care about the money for itself,
since he was no miser, and being the most inveterate of gamblers never
saved a single stiver. He wanted it to spend and to stake upon the dice.
Thus again, in variance to the taste of most of his countrymen, he cared
little for the other sex; he did not even like their society, and as for
their passion and the rest he thought it something of a bore. But he did
care intensely for their admiration, so much so that if no better game
were at hand, he would take enormous trouble to fascinate even a serving
maid or a fish girl. Wherever he went it was his ambition to be reported
the man the most admired of the fair in that city, and to attain this
end he offered himself upon the altar of numerous love affairs which
did not amuse him in the least. Of course, the indulgence of this vanity
meant expense, since the fair require money and presents, and he who
pursues them should be well dressed and horsed and able to do things
in the very finest style. Also their relatives must be entertained, and
when they were entertained impressed with the sense that they had the
honour to be guests of a grandee of Spain.

Now that of a grandee has never been a cheap profession; indeed, as many
a pauper peer knows to-day, rank without resources is a terrific burden.
Montalvo had the rank, for he was a well-born man, whose sole heritage
was an ancient tower built by some warlike ancestor in a position
admirably suited to the purpose of the said ancestor, namely, the
pillage of travellers through a neighbouring mountain pass. When,
however, travellers ceased to use that pass, or for other reasons
robbery became no longer productive, the revenues of the Montalvo family
declined till at the present date they were practically nil. Thus it
came about that the status of the last representative of this ancient
stock was that of a soldier of fortune of the common type, endowed,
unfortunately for himself, with grand ideas, a gambler's fatal fire,
expensive tastes, and more than the usual pride of race.

Although, perhaps, he had never defined them very clearly, even to
himself, Juan de Montalvo had two aims in life: first to indulge his
every freak and fancy to the full, and next--but this was secondary
and somewhat nebulous--to re-establish the fortunes of his family. In
themselves they were quite legitimate aims, and in those times, when
fishers of troubled waters generally caught something, and when men of
ability and character might force their way to splendid positions, there
was no reason why they should not have led him to success. Yet so
far, at any rate, in spite of many opportunities, he had not succeeded
although he was now a man of more than thirty. The causes of his
failures were various, but at the bottom of them lay his lack of
stability and genuineness.

A man who is always playing a part amuses every one but convinces
nobody. Montalvo convinced nobody. When he discoursed on the mysteries
of religion with priests, even priests who in those days for the
most part were stupid, felt that they assisted in a mere intellectual
exercise. When his theme was war his audience guessed that his object
was probably love. When love was his song an inconvenient instinct was
apt to assure the lady immediately concerned that it was love of self
and not of her. They were all more or less mistaken, but, as usual, the
women went nearest to the mark. Montalvo's real aim was self, but he
spelt it, Money. Money in large sums was what he wanted, and what in
this way or that he meant to win.

Now even in the sixteenth century fortunes did not lie to the hand of
every adventurer. Military pay was small, and not easily recoverable;
loot was hard to come by, and quickly spent. Even the ransom of a rich
prisoner or two soon disappeared in the payment of such debts of honour
as could not be avoided. Of course there remained the possibility of
wealthy marriage, which in a country like the Netherlands, that was
full of rich heiresses, was not difficult to a high-born, handsome, and
agreeable man of the ruling Spanish caste. Indeed, after many chances
and changes the time had come at length when Montalvo must either marry
or be ruined. For his station his debts, especially his gaming debts,
were enormous, and creditors met him at every turn. Unfortunately for
him, also, some of these creditors were persons who had the ear of
people in authority. So at last it came about that an intimation reached
him that this scandal must be abated, or he must go back to Spain, a
country which, as it happened, he did not in the least wish to visit.
In short, the sorry hour of reckoning, that hour which overtakes all
procrastinators, had arrived, and marriage, wealthy marriage, was the
only way wherewith it could be defied. It was a sad alternative to a man
who for his own very excellent reasons did not wish to marry, but this
had to be faced.

Thus it came about that, as the only suitable _partie_ in Leyden,
the Count Montalvo had sought out the well-favoured and well-endowed
Jufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout to be his companion in the great sledge race,
and taken so much trouble to ensure to himself a friendly reception at
her house.

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