Book: Lysbeth

H >> H. Rider Haggard >> Lysbeth




The hour came, and with it the guests. The feast began, the cooks
streamed up and down bearing relays of dishes from the inn. Above the
table hung a six-armed brass chandelier, and in each of its sockets
guttered a tallow candle furnishing light to the company beneath,
although outside of its bright ring there was shadow more or less dense.
Towards the end of dinner a portion of the rush wick of one of these
candles fell into the brass saucer beneath, causing the molten grease
to burn up fiercely. As it chanced, by the light of this sudden flare,
Montalvo, who was sitting opposite to the door, thought that he caught
sight of a tall, dark figure gliding along the wall towards the bedroom.
For one instant he saw it, then it was gone.

"_Caramba_, my friend," he said, addressing Dirk, whose back was turned
towards the figure, "have you any ghosts in this gloomy old room of
yours? Because, if so, I think I have just seen one."

"Ghosts!" answered Dirk, "no, I never heard of any; I do not believe in
ghosts. Take some more of that pasty."

Montalvo took some more pasty, and washed it down with a glass of
wine. But he said no more about ghosts--perhaps an explanation of the
phenomenon had occurred to him; at any rate he decided to leave the
subject alone.

After the dinner they gambled, and this evening the stakes began where
those of the previous night left off. For the first hour Dirk lost, then
the luck turned and he won heavily, but always from Montalvo.

"My friend," said the captain at last, throwing down his cards,
"certainly you are fated to be unfortunate in your matrimonial
adventures, for the devil lives in your dice-box, and his highness does
not give everything. I pass," and he rose from the table.

"I pass also," said Dirk following him into the window place, for he
wished to take no more money. "You have been very unlucky, Count," he
said.

"Very, indeed, my young friend," answered Montalvo, yawning, "in fact,
for the next six months I must live on--well--well, nothing, except the
recollection of your excellent dinner."

"I am sorry," muttered Dirk, confusedly, "I did not wish to take your
money; it was the turn of those accursed dice. See here, let us say no
more about it."

"Sir," said Montalvo, with a sudden sternness, "an officer and a
gentleman cannot treat a debt of honour thus; but," he added with a
little laugh, "if another gentleman chances to be good enough to charge
a debt of honour for a debt of honour, the affair is different. If,
for instance, it would suit you to lend me four hundred florins, which,
added to the six hundred which I have lost to-night, would make a
thousand in all, well, it will be a convenience to me, though should it
be any inconvenience to you, pray do not think of such a thing."

"Certainly," answered Dirk, "I have won nearly as much as that, and here
at my own table. Take them, I beg of you, captain," and emptying a roll
of gold into his hand, he counted it with the skill of a merchant, and
held it towards him.

Montalvo hesitated. Then he took the money, pouring it carelessly into
his pocket.

"You have not checked the sum," said Dirk.

"My friend, it is needless," answered his guest, "your word is rather
better than any bond," and again he yawned, remarking that it was
getting late.

Dirk waited a few moments, thinking in his coarse, business-like way
that the noble Spaniard might wish to say something about a written
acknowledgment. As, however, this did not seem to occur to him, and
the matter was not one of ordinary affairs, he led the way back to the
table, where the other two were now showing their skill in card tricks.

A few minutes later the two Spaniards took their departure, leaving Dirk
and his cousin Brant alone.

"A very successful evening," said Brant, "and, cousin, you won a great
deal."

"Yes," answered Dirk, "but all the same I am a poorer man than I was
yesterday."

Brant laughed. "Did he borrow of you?" he asked. "Well, I thought he
would, and what's more, don't you count on that money. Montalvo is a
good sort of fellow in his own fashion, but he is an extravagant man
and a desperate gambler, with a queer history, I fancy--at least, nobody
knows much about him, not even his brother officers. If you ask them
they shrug their shoulders and say that Spain is a big kettle full of
all sorts of fish. One thing I do know, however, that he is over head
and ears in debt; indeed, there was trouble about it down at The Hague.
So, cousin, don't you play with him more than you can help, and don't
reckon on that thousand florins to pay your bills with. It is a mystery
to me how the man gets on, but I am told that a foolish old vrouw in
Amsterdam lent him a lot till she discovered--but there, I don't
talk scandal. And now," he added, changing his voice, "is this place
private?"

"Let's see," said Dirk, "they have cleared the things away, and the old
housekeeper has tidied up my bedroom. Yes, I think so. Nobody ever comes
up here after ten o'clock. What is it?"

Brant touched his arm, and, understanding the truth, Dirk led the way
into the window-place. There, standing with his back to the room, and
his hands crossed in a peculiar fashion, he uttered the word, "_Jesus_,"
and paused. Brant also crossed his hands and answered, or, rather,
continued, "_wept_." It was the password of those of the New Religion.

"You are one of us, cousin?" said Dirk.

"I and all my house, my father, my mother, my sister, and the maiden
whom I am to marry. They told me at The Hague that I must seek of you or
the young Heer Pieter van de Werff, knowledge of those things which we
of the Faith need to know; who are to be trusted, and who are not to
be trusted; where prayer is held, and where we may partake of the pure
Sacrament of God the Son."

Dirk took his cousin's hand and pressed it. The pressure was returned,
and thenceforward brother could not have trusted brother more
completely, for now between them was the bond of a common and burning
faith.

Such bonds the reader may say, tie ninety out of every hundred people
to each other in the present year of grace, but it is not to be observed
that a like mutual confidence results. No, because the circumstances
have changed. Thanks very largely to Dirk van Goorl and his fellows of
that day, especially to one William of Orange, it is no longer necessary
for devout and God-fearing people to creep into holes and corners, like
felons hiding from the law, that they may worship the Almighty after
some fashion as pure as it is simple, knowing the while that if they are
found so doing their lot and the lot of their wives and children will
be the torment and the stake. Now the thumbscrew and the rack as
instruments for the discomfiture of heretics are relegated to the
dusty cases of museums. But some short generations since all this was
different, for then a man who dared to disagree with certain doctrines
was treated with far less mercy than is shown to a dog on the
vivisector's table.

Little wonder, therefore, that those who lay under such a ban, those who
were continually walking in the cold shadow of this dreadful doom, clung
to each other, loved each other, and comforted each other to the last,
passing often enough hand-in-hand through the fiery gates to that
country in which there is no more pain. To be a member of the New
Religion in the Netherlands under the awful rule of Charles the Emperor
and Philip the King was to be one of a vast family. It was not "sir"
or "mistress" or "madame," it was "my father" and "my mother," or "my
sister" and "my brother;" yes, and between people who were of very
different status and almost strangers in the flesh; strangers in the
flesh but brethren in spirit.

It will be understood that in these circumstances Dirk and Brant,
already liking each other, and being already connected by blood, were
not slow in coming to a complete understanding and fellowship.

There they sat in the window-place telling each other of their families,
their hopes and fears, and even of their lady-loves. In this, as in
every other respect, Hendrik Brant's story was one of simple prosperity.
He was betrothed to a lady of The Hague, the only daughter of a wealthy
wine-merchant, who, according to his account, seemed to be as beautiful
as she was good and rich, and they were to be married in the spring. But
when Dirk told him of his affair, he shook his wise young head.

"You say that both she and her aunt are Catholics?" he asked.

"Yes, cousin, this is the trouble. I think that she is fond of me, or,
at any rate, she was until a few days since," he added ruefully, "but
how can I, being a 'heretic,' ask her to plight her troth to me unless
I tell her? And that, you know, is against the rule; indeed, I scarcely
dare to do so."

"Had you not best consult with some godly elder who by prayer and words
may move your lady's heart till the light shines on her?" asked Brant.

"Cousin, it has been done, but always there is the other in the way,
that red-nosed Aunt Clara, who is a mad idolator; also there is
the serving-woman, Greta, whom I take for little better than a spy.
Therefore, between the two of them I see little chance that Lysbeth will
ever hear the truth this side of marriage. And yet how dare I marry her?
Is it right that I should marry her and therefore, perhaps, bring her
too to some dreadful fate such as may wait for you or me? Moreover, now
since this man Montalvo has crossed my path, all things seem to have
gone wrong between me and Lysbeth; indeed but yesterday her door was
shut on me."

"Women have their fancies," answered Brant, slowly; "perhaps he has
taken hers; she would not be the first who walked that plank. Or,
perhaps, she is vexed with you for not speaking out ere this; for, man,
not knowing what you are, how can she read your mind?"

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Dirk, "but I know not what to do," and in his
perplexity he struck his forehead with his hand.

"Then, brother, in that case what hinders that we should ask Him Who can
tell you?" said Brant, calmly.

Dirk understood what he meant at once. "It is a wise thought, and a good
one, cousin. I have the Holy Book; first let us pray, and then we can
seek wisdom there."

"You are rich, indeed," answered Brant; "sometime you must tell me how
and where you came by it."

"Here in Leyden, if one can afford to pay for them, such goods are not
hard to get," said Dirk; "what _is_ hard is to keep them safely, for
to be found with a Bible in your pocket is to carry your own
death-warrant."

Brant nodded. "Is it safe to show it here?" he asked.

"As safe as anywhere, cousin; the window is shuttered, the door is, or
will be, locked, but who can say that he is safe this side of the stake
in a land where the rats and mice carry news and the wind bears witness?
Come, I will show you were I keep it," and going to the mantelpiece
he took down a candle-stick, a quaint brass, ornamented on its massive
oblong base with two copper snails, and lit the candle. "Do you like the
piece?" he asked; "it is my own design, which I cast and filed out in
my spare hours," and he gazed at the holder with the affection of an
artist. Then without waiting for an answer, he led the way to the door
of his sitting-room and paused.

"What is it?" asked Brant.

"I thought I heard a sound, that is all, but doubtless the old vrouw
moves upon the stairs. Turn the key, cousin, so, now come on."

They entered the sleeping chamber, and having glanced round and made
sure that it was empty, and the window shut, Dirk went to the head of
the bed, which was formed of oak-panels, the centre one carved with
a magnificent coat-of-arms, fellow to that in the fireplace of the
sitting-room. At this panel Dirk began to work, till presently it slid
aside, revealing a hollow, out of which he took a book bound in boards
covered with leather. Then, having closed the panel, the two young men
returned to the sitting-room, and placed the volume upon the oak table
beneath the chandelier.

"First let us pray," said Brant.

It seems curious, does it not, that two young men as a _finale_ to a
dinner party, and a gambling match at which the stakes had not been low;
young men who like others had their weaknesses, for one of them, at any
rate, could drink too much wine at times, and both being human doubtless
had further sins to bear, should suggest kneeling side by side to offer
prayers to their Maker before they studied the Scriptures? But then in
those strange days prayer, now so common (and so neglected) an exercise,
was an actual luxury. To these poor hunted men and women it was a joy
to be able to kneel and offer thanks and petitions to God, believing
themselves to be safe from the sword of those who worshipped otherwise.
Thus it came about that, religion being forbidden, was to them a very
real and earnest thing, a thing to be indulged in at every opportunity
with solemn and grateful hearts. So there, beneath the light of the
guttering candles, they knelt side by side while Brant, speaking for
both of them, offered up a prayer--a sight touching enough and in its
way beautiful.

The words of his petition do not matter. He prayed for their Church; he
prayed for their country that it might be made strong and free; he even
prayed for the Emperor, the carnal, hare-lipped, guzzling, able Hapsburg
self-seeker. Then he prayed for themselves and all who were dear to
them, and lastly, that light might be vouchsafed to Dirk in his present
difficulty. No, not quite lastly, for he ended with a petition that
their enemies might be forgiven, yes, even those who tortured them and
burnt them at the stake, since they knew not what they did. It may be
wondered whether any human aspirations could have been more thoroughly
steeped in the true spirit of Christianity.

When at length he had finished they rose from their knees.

"Shall I open the Book at a hazard," asked Dirk, "and read what my eye
falls on?"

"No," answered Brant, "for it savours of superstition; thus did the
ancients with the writings of the poet Virgilius, and it is not fitting
that we who hold the light should follow the example of those blind
heathen. What work of the Book, brother, are you studying now?"

"The first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, which I have never read
before," he answered.

"Then begin where you left off, brother, and read your chapter. Perhaps
we may find instruction in it; if not, no answer is vouchsafed to us
to-night."

So from the black-letter volume before him Dirk began to read the
seventh chapter, in which, as it chances, the great Apostle deals with
the marriage state. On he read, in a quiet even voice, till he came to
the twelfth and four following verses, of which the last three run: "For
the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving
wife is sanctified by the husband: else were your children unclean;
but now they are holy. But if the unbelieving depart, let him depart.
A brother or a sister is not under bondage in such cases; but God has
called us to peace. For what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt
save thy husband? or how knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save
thy wife?" Dirk's voice trembled, and he paused.

"Continue to the end of the chapter," said Brant, so the reader went on.

There is a sound. They do not hear it, but the door of the bedchamber
behind them opens ever so little. They do not see it, but between door
and lintel something white thrusts itself, a woman's white face crowned
with black hair, and set in it two evil, staring eyes. Surely,
when first he raised his head in Eden, Satan might have worn such a
countenance as this. It cranes itself forward till the long, thin neck
seems to stretch; then suddenly a stir or a movement alarms it, and back
the face draws like the crest of a startled snake. Back it draws, and
the door closes again.

The chapter is read, the prayer is prayed, and strange may seem the
answer to that prayer, an answer to shake out faith from the hearts of
men; men who are impatient, who do not know that as the light takes long
in travelling from a distant star, so the answer from the Throne to the
supplication of trust may be long in coming. It may not come to-day
or to-morrow. It may not come in this generation or this century; the
prayer of to-day may receive its crown when the children's children of
the lips that uttered it have in their turn vanished in the dust. And
yet that Divine reply may in no wise be delayed; even as our liberty
of this hour may be the fruit of those who died when Dirk van Goorl and
Hendrik Brant walked upon the earth; even as the vengeance that but now
is falling on the Spaniard may be the reward of the deeds of shame that
he worked upon them and upon their kin long generations gone. For the
Throne is still the Throne, and the star is still the star; from the one
flows justice and from the other light, and to them time and space are
naught.

Dirk finished the chapter and closed the Book.

"It seems that you have your answer, Brother," said Brant quietly.

"Yes," replied Dirk, "it is written large enough:--'The unbelieving wife
is sanctified by the husband . . . how knowest thou, O man, whether thou
shalt save thy wife?' Had the Apostle foreseen my case he could not have
set the matter forth more clearly."

"He, or the Spirit in him, knew all cases, and wrote for every man that
ever shall be born," answered Brant. "This is a lesson to us. Had you
looked sooner you would have learned sooner, and mayhap much trouble
might have been spared. As it is, without doubt you must make haste and
speak to her at once, leaving the rest with God."

"Yes," said Dirk, "as soon as may be, but there is one thing more; ought
I tell her all the truth?"

"I should not be careful to hide it, friend, and now, good night. No,
do not come to the door with me. Who can tell, there may be watchers
without, and it is not wise that we should be seen together so late."



When his cousin and new-found friend had gone Dirk sat for a while, till
the guttering tallow lights overhead burned to the sockets indeed. Then,
taking the candle from the snail-adorned holder, he lit it, and,
having extinguished those in the chandeliers, went into his bedroom and
undressed himself. The Bible he returned to its hiding-place and closed
the panel, after which he blew out the light and climbed into the tall
bed.

As a rule Dirk was a most excellent sleeper; when he laid his head on
the pillow his eyes closed nor did they open again until the appointed
and accustomed hour. But this night he could not sleep. Whether it was
the dinner or the wine, or the gambling, or the prayer and the searching
of the Scriptures with his cousin Brant, the result remained the same;
he was very wakeful, which annoyed him the more as a man of his race and
phlegm found it hard to attribute this unrest to any of these trivial
causes. Still, as vexation would not make him sleep, he lay awake
watching the moonlight flood the chamber in broad bars and thinking.

Somehow as Dirk thought thus he grew afraid; it seemed to him as though
he shared that place with another presence, an evil and malignant
presence. Never in his life before had he troubled over or been troubled
by tales of spirits, yet now he remembered Montalvo's remark about a
ghost, and of a surety he felt as though one were with him there. In
this strange and new alarm he sought for comfort and could think of none
save that which an old and simple pastor had recommended to him in all
hours of doubt and danger, namely, if it could be had, to clasp a Bible
to his heart and pray.

Well, both things were easy. Raising himself in bed, in a moment he had
taken the book from its hiding-place and closed the panel. Then pressing
it against his breast between himself and the mattress he lay down
again, and it would seem that the charm worked, for presently he was
asleep.

Yet Dirk dreamed a very evil dream. He dreamed that a tall black figure
leaned over him, and that a long white hand was stretched out to his
bed-head where it wandered to and fro, till at last he heard the panel
slide home with a rattling noise.

Then it seemed to him that he woke, and that his eyes met two eyes bent
down over him, eyes which searched him as though they would read the
very secrets of his heart. He did not stir, he could not, but lo!
in this dream of his the figure straightened itself and glided away,
appearing and disappearing as it crossed the bars of moonlight until it
vanished by the door.

A while later and Dirk woke up in truth, to find that although the night
was cold enough the sweat ran in big drops from his brow and body. But
now strangely enough his fear was gone, and, knowing that he had but
dreamed a dream, he turned over, touched the Bible on his breast, and
fell sleeping like a child, to be awakened only by the light of the
rising winter sun pouring on his face.

Then Dirk remembered that dream of the bygone night, and his heart grew
heavy, for it seemed to him that this vision of a dark woman searching
his face with those dreadful eyes was a portent of evil not far away.



CHAPTER VI

THE BETROTHAL OF LYSBETH

On the following morning when Montalvo entered his private room after
breakfast, he found a lady awaiting him, in whom, notwithstanding the
long cloak and veil she wore, he had little difficulty in recognising
Black Meg. In fact Black Meg had been waiting some while, and being a
person of industrious habits she had not neglected to use her time to
the best advantage.

The reader may remember that when Meg visited the gallant Captain
Montalvo upon a previous occasion, she had taken the liberty of helping
herself to certain papers which she found lying just inside an unlocked
desk. These papers on examination, as she feared might be the case, for
the most part proved to be quite unimportant--unpaid accounts, military
reports, a billet or two from ladies, and so forth. But in thinking the
matter over Black Meg remembered that this desk had another part to
it, which seemed to be locked, and, therefore, just in case they should
prove useful, she took with her a few skeleton keys and one or two
little instruments of steel and attended the pleasure of her noble
patron at an hour when she believed that he would be at breakfast in
another room. Things went well; he was at breakfast and she was left
alone in the chamber with the desk. The rest may be guessed. Replacing
the worthless bundle in the unlocked part, by the aid of her keys and
instruments she opened the inner half. There sure enough were letters
hidden, and in a little drawer two miniatures framed in gold, one of a
lady, young and pretty with dark eyes, and the other of two children,
a boy and a girl of five or six years of age. Also there was a curling
lock of hair labelled in Montalvo's writing--"Juanita's hair, which she
gave me as a keepsake."

Here was treasure indeed whereof Black Meg did not fail to possess
herself. Thrusting the letters and other articles into the bosom of her
dress to be examined at leisure, she was clever enough, before closing
and re-locking the desk, to replace them with a dummy bundle, hastily
made up from some papers that lay about.

When everything had been satisfactorily arranged she went outside and
chattered for a while with the soldier on guard, only re-entering the
room by one door as Montalvo appeared in it through the other.

"Well, my friend," he said, "have you the evidence?"

"I have some evidence, Excellency," she answered. "I was present at the
dinner that you ate last night, although none of it came my way, and--I
was present afterwards."

"Indeed. I thought I saw you slip in, and allow me to congratulate you
on that; it was very well thought out and done, just as folk were
moving up and down the stairs. Also, when I went home, I believe that
I recognised a gentleman in the street whom I have been given to
understand you honour with your friendship, a short, stout person with
a bald head; let me see, he was called the Butcher at The Hague, was he
not? No, do not pout, I have no wish to pry into the secrets of ladies,
but still in my position here it is my business to know a thing or two.
Well, what did you see?"

"Excellency, I saw the young man I was sent to watch and Hendrik Brant,
the son of the rich goldsmith at The Hague, praying side by side upon
their knees."

"That is bad, very bad," said Montalvo shaking his head, "but----"

"I saw," she went on in her hoarse voice, "the pair of them read the
Bible."

"How shocking!" replied Montalvo with a simulated shudder. "Think of
it, my orthodox friend, if you are to be believed, these two persons,
hitherto supposed to be respectable, have been discovered in the crime
of consulting that work upon which our Faith is founded. Well, those
who could read anything so dull must, indeed, as the edicts tell us, be
monsters unworthy to live. But, if you please, your proofs. Of course
you have this book?"

Then Black Meg poured forth all her tale--how she had watched and seen
something, how she had listened and heard little, how she had gone to
the secret panel, bending over the sleeping man, and found--nothing.

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