A MEETING AND A PARTING
Lysbeth did not sleep that night, for even if her misery would have let
her sleep, she could not because of the physical fire that burnt in her
veins, and the strange pangs of agony which pierced her head. At first
she thought little of them, but when at last the cold light of the
autumn morning dawned she went to a mirror and examined herself, and
there upon her neck she found a hard red swelling of the size of a nut.
Then Lysbeth knew that she had caught the plague from the Vrouw Jansen,
and laughed aloud, a dreary little laugh, since if all she loved were
to die, it seemed to her good that she should die also. Elsa was abed
prostrated with grief, and, shutting herself in her room, Lysbeth
suffered none to come near her except one woman who she knew had
recovered from the plague in past years, but even to her she said
nothing of her sickness.
About eleven o’clock in the morning this woman rushed into her chamber
crying, “They have escaped! They have escaped!”
“Who?” gasped Lysbeth, springing from her chair.
“Your son Foy and Red Martin,” and she told the tale of how the naked
man with the naked sword, carrying the wounded Foy upon his back, burst
his way roaring from the Gevangenhuis, and, protected by the people,
had run through the town and out of the Morsch poort, heading for the
Haarlemer Meer.
As she listened Lysbeth’s eyes flamed up with a fire of pride.
“Oh! good and faithful servant,” she murmured, “you have saved my son,
but alas! your master you could not save.”
Another hour passed, and the woman appeared again bearing a letter.
“Who brought this?” she asked.
“A Spanish soldier, mistress.”
Then she cut the silk and read it. It was unsigned, and ran:—
“One in authority sends greetings to the Vrouw van Goorl. If the Vrouw
van Goorl would save the life of the man who is dearest to her, she is
prayed to veil herself and follow the bearer of this letter. For her
own safety she need have no fear; it is assured hereby.”
Lysbeth thought awhile. This might be a trick; very probably it was a
trick to take her. Well, if so, what did it matter since she would
rather die with her husband than live on without him; moreover, why
should she turn aside from death, she in whose veins the plague was
burning? But there was another thing worse than that. She could guess
who had penned this letter; it even seemed to her, after all these many
years, that she recognised the writing, disguised though it was. Could
she face him! Well, why not—for Dirk’s sake?
And if she refused and Dirk was done to death, would she not reproach
herself, if she lived to remember it, because she had left a stone
unturned?
“Give me my cloak and veil,” she said to the woman, “and now go tell
the man that I am coming.”
At the door she found the soldier, who saluted her, and said
respectfully, “Follow me, lady, but at a little distance.”
So they started, and through side streets Lysbeth was led to a back
entrance of the Gevangenhuis, which opened and closed behind her
mysteriously, leaving her wondering whether she would ever pass that
gate again. Within a man was waiting—she did not even notice what kind
of man—who also said, “Follow me, lady,” and led her through gloomy
passages and various doors into a little empty chamber furnished with a
table and two chairs. Presently the door opened and shut; then her
whole being shrank and sickened as though beneath the breath of poison,
for there before her, still the same, still handsome, although so
marred by time and scars and evil, stood the man who had been her
husband, Juan de Montalvo. But whatever she felt Lysbeth showed nothing
of it in her face, which remained white and stern; moreover, even
before she looked at him she was aware that he feared her more than she
feared him.
It was true, for from this woman’s eyes went out a sword of terror that
seemed to pierce Montalvo’s heart. Back flew his mind to the scene of
their betrothal, and the awful words that she had spoken then re-echoed
in his ears. How strangely things had come round, for on that day, as
on this, the stake at issue was the life of Dirk van Goorl. In the old
times she had bought it, paying as its price herself, her fortune, and,
worst of all, to a woman, her lover’s scorn and wonder. What would she
be prepared to pay now? Well, fortunately, he need ask but little of
her. And yet his soul mistrusted him of these bargainings with Lysbeth
van Hout for the life of Dirk van Goorl. The first had ended ill with a
sentence of fourteen years in the galleys, most of which he had served.
How would the second end?
By way of answer there seemed to rise before the eye of Montalvo’s mind
a measureless black gulf, and, falling, falling, falling through its
infinite depths one miserable figure, a mere tiny point that served to
show the vastness it explored. The point turned over, and he saw its
face as in a crystal—it was his own.
This unpleasant nightmare of the imagination came in an instant, and in
an instant passed. The next Montalvo, courteous and composed, was
bowing before his visitor and praying her to be seated.
“It is most good of you, Vrouw van Goorl,” he began, “to have responded
so promptly to my invitation.”
“Perhaps, Count de Montalvo,” she replied, “you will do me the favour
to set out your business in as few words as possible.”
“Most certainly; that is my desire. Let me free your mind of
apprehension. The past has mingled memories for both of us, some of
them bitter, some, let me hope, sweet,” and he laid his hand upon his
heart and sighed. “But it is a dead past, so, dear lady, let us agree
to bury it in a fitting silence.”
Lysbeth made no answer, only her mouth grew a trifle more stern.
“Now, one word more, and I will come to the point. Let me congratulate
you upon the gallant deeds of a gallant son. Of course his courage and
dexterity, with that of the red giant, Martin, have told against
myself, have, in short, lost me a trick in the game. But I am an old
soldier, and I can assure you that the details of their fight yesterday
at the factory, and of their marvellous escape from—from—well, painful
surroundings this morning, have stirred my blood and made my heart beat
fast.”
“I have heard the tale; do not trouble to repeat it,” said Lysbeth. “It
is only what I expected of them, but I thank God that it has pleased
Him to let them live on so that in due course they may fearfully avenge
a beloved father and master.”
Montalvo coughed and turned his head with the idea of avoiding that
ghastly nightmare of a pitiful little man falling down a fathomless
gulf which had sprung up suddenly in his mind again.
“Well,” he went on, “a truce to compliments. They escaped, and I am
glad of it, whatever murders they may contemplate in the future. Yes,
notwithstanding their great crimes and manslayings in the past I am
glad that they escaped, although it was my duty to keep them while I
could—and if I should catch them it will be my duty—but I needn’t talk
of that to you. Of course, however, you know, there is one gentleman
who was not quite so fortunate.”
“My husband?”
“Yes, your worthy husband, who, happily for my reputation as captain of
one of His Majesty’s prisons, occupies an upstairs room.”
“What of him?” asked Lysbeth.
“Dear lady, don’t be over anxious; there is nothing so wearing as
anxiety. I was coming to the matter.” Then, with a sudden change of
manner, he added, “It is needful, Lysbeth, that I should set out the
situation.”
“What situation do you mean?”
“Well, principally that of the treasure.”
“What treasure?”
“Oh! woman, do not waste time in trying to fool me. The treasure, the
vast, the incalculable treasure of Hendrik Brant which Foy van Goorl
and Martin, who have escaped”—and he ground his teeth together at the
anguish of the thought—“disposed of somewhere in the Haarlemer Meer.”
“Well, what about this treasure?”
“I want it, that is all.”
“Then you had best go to seek it.”
“That is my intention, and I shall begin the search—in the heart of
Dirk van Goorl,” he added, slowly crushing the handkerchief he held
with his long fingers as though it were a living thing that could be
choked to death.
Lysbeth never stirred, she had expected this.
“You will find it a poor mine to dig in,” she said, “for he knows
nothing of the whereabouts of this money. Nobody knows anything of it
now. Martin hid it, as I understand, and lost the paper, so it will lie
there till the Haarlemer Meer is drained.”
“Dear me! Do you know I have heard that story before; yes, from the
excellent Martin himself—and, do you know, I don’t quite believe it.”
“I cannot help what you believe or do not believe. You may remember
that it was always my habit to speak the truth.”
“Quite so, but others may be less conscientious. See here,” and drawing
a paper from his doublet, he held it before her. It was nothing less
than the death-warrant of Dirk van Goorl, signed by the Inquisitor,
duly authorised thereto.
Mechanically she read it and understood.
“You will observe,” he went on, “that the method of the criminal’s
execution is left to the good wisdom of our well-beloved—etc., in plain
language, to me. Now might I trouble you so far as to look out of this
little window? What do you see in front of you? A kitchen? Quite so;
always a homely and pleasant sight in the eyes of an excellent
housewife like yourself. And—do you mind bending forward a little? What
do you see up there? A small barred window? Well, let us suppose, for
the sake of argument, that a hungry man, a man who grows hungrier and
hungrier, sat behind that window watching the cooks at their work and
seeing the meat carried into this kitchen, to come out an hour or two
later as hot, steaming, savoury joints, while he wasted, wasted, wasted
and starved, starved, starved. Don’t you think, my dear lady, that this
would be a very unpleasant experience for that man?”
“Are you a devil?” gasped Lysbeth, springing back.
“I have never regarded myself as such, but if you seek a definition, I
should say that I am a hard-working, necessitous, and somewhat
unfortunate gentleman who has been driven to rough methods in order to
secure a comfortable old age. I can assure you that _I_ do not wish to
starve anybody; I wish only to find Hendrik Brant’s treasure, and if
your worthy husband won’t tell me where it is, why I must make him,
that is all. In six or eight days under my treatment I am convinced
that he will become quite fluent on the subject, for there is nothing
that should cause a fat burgher, accustomed to good living, to open his
heart more than a total lack of the victuals which he can see and
smell. Did you ever hear the story of an ancient gentleman called
Tantalus? These old fables have a wonderful way of adapting themselves
to the needs and circumstances of us moderns, haven’t they?”
Then Lysbeth’s pride broke down, and, in the abandonment of her
despair, flinging herself upon her knees before this monster, she
begged for her husband’s life, begged, in the name of God, yes, and
even in the name of Montalvo’s son, Adrian. So low had her misery
brought her that she pleaded with the man by the son of shame whom she
had borne to him.
He prayed her to rise. “I want to save your husband’s life,” he said.
“I give you my word that if only he will tell me what I desire to know,
I will save it; yes, although the risk is great, I will even manage his
escape, and I shall ask you to go upstairs presently and explain my
amiable intentions to him.” Then he thought a moment and added, “But
you mentioned one Adrian. Pray do you mean the gentleman whose
signature appears here?” and he handed her another document, saying,
“Read it quietly, there is no hurry. The good Dirk is not starving yet;
I am informed, indeed, that he has just made an excellent breakfast—not
his last by many thousands, let us hope.”
Lysbeth took the sheets and glanced at them. Then her intelligence
awoke, and she read on fiercely until her eye came to the well-known
signature at the foot of the last page. She cast the roll down with a
cry as though a serpent had sprung from its pages and bitten her.
“I fear that you are pained,” said Montalvo sympathetically, “and no
wonder, for myself I have gone through such disillusionments, and know
how they wound a generous nature. That’s why I showed you this
document, because I also am generous and wish to warn you against this
young gentleman, who, I understand, you allege is my son. You see the
person who would betray his brother might even go a step further and
betray his mother, so, if you take my advice, you will keep an eye upon
the young man. Also I am bound to remind you that it is more or less
your own fault. It is a most unlucky thing to curse a child before it
is born—you remember the incident? That curse has come home to roost
with a vengeance. What a warning against giving way to the passion of
the moment!”
Lysbeth heeded him no longer; she was thinking as she had never thought
before. At that moment, as though by an inspiration, there floated into
her mind the words of the dead Vrouw Jansen: “The plague, I wish that I
had caught it before, for then I would have taken it to him in prison,
and they couldn’t have treated him as they did.” Dirk was in prison,
and Dirk was to be starved to death, for, whatever Montalvo might
think, he did not know the secret, and, therefore, could not tell it.
And she—she had the plague on her; she knew its symptoms well, and its
poison was burning in her every vein, although she still could think
and speak and walk.
Well, why not? It would be no crime. Indeed, if it was a crime, she
cared little; it would be better that he should die of the plague in
five days, or perhaps in two, if it worked quickly, as it often did
with the full-blooded, than that he should linger on starving for
twelve or more, and perhaps be tormented besides.
Swiftly, very swiftly, Lysbeth came to her dreadful decision. Then she
spoke in a hoarse voice.
“What do you wish me to do?”
“I wish you to reason with your husband, and to persuade him to cease
from his obstinacy, and to surrender to me the secret of the
hiding-place of Brant’s hoard. In that event, so soon as I have proved
the truth of what he tells me, I undertake that he shall be set at
liberty unharmed, and that, meanwhile, he shall be well treated.”
“And if I will not, or he will not, or cannot?”
“Then I have told you the alternative, and to show you that I am not
joking, I will now write and sign the order. Then, if you decline this
mission, or if it is fruitless, I will hand it to the officer before
your eyes—and within the next ten days or so let you know the results,
or witness them if you wish.”
“I will go,” she said, “but I must see him alone.”
“It is unusual,” he answered, “but provided you satisfy me that you
carry no weapon, I do not know that I need object.”
So, when Montalvo had written his order and scattered dust on it from
the pounce-box, for he was a man of neat and methodical habits, he
himself with every possible courtesy conducted Lysbeth to her husband’s
prison. Having ushered her into it, with a cheerful “Friend van Goorl,
I bring you a visitor,” he locked the door upon them, and patiently
waited outside.
It matters not what passed within. Whether Lysbeth told her husband of
her dread yet sacred purpose, or did not tell him; whether he ever
learned of the perfidy of Adrian, or did not learn it; what were their
parting words—their parting prayers, all these things matter not;
indeed, the last are too holy to be written. Let us bow our heads and
pass them by in silence, and let the reader imagine them as he will.
Growing impatient at length, Montalvo unlocked the prison door and
opened it, to discover Lysbeth and her husband kneeling side by side in
the centre of the room like the figures on some ancient marble
monument. They heard him and rose. Then Dirk folded his wife in his
arms in a long, last embrace, and, loosing her, held one hand above her
head in blessing, as with the other he pointed to the door.
So infinitely pathetic was this dumb show of farewell, for no word
passed between them while he was present, that not only his barbed
gibes, but the questions that he meant to ask, died upon the lips of
Montalvo. Try as he might he could not speak them here.
“Come,” he said, and Lysbeth passed out.
At the door she turned to look, and there, in the centre of the room,
still stood her husband, tears streaming from his eyes, down a face
radiant with an unearthly smile, and his right hand lifted towards the
heavens. And so she left him.
Presently Montalvo and Lysbeth were together again in the little room.
“I fear,” he said, “from what I saw just now, that your mission has
failed.”
“It has failed,” she answered in such a voice as might be dragged by an
evil magic from the lips of a corpse. “He does not know the secret you
seek, and, therefore, he cannot tell it.”
“I am sorry that I cannot believe you,” said Montalvo, “so”—and he
stretched out his hand towards a bell upon the table.
“Stop,” she said; “for your own sake stop. Man, will you really commit
this awful, this useless crime? Think of the reckoning that must be
paid here and hereafter; think of me, the woman you dishonoured,
standing before the Judgment Seat of God, and bearing witness against
your naked, shivering soul. Think of him, the good and harmless man
whom you are about cruelly to butcher, crying in the ear of Christ,
‘Look upon Juan de Montalvo, my pitiless murderer——‘”
“Silence,” shouted Montalvo, yet shrinking back against the wall as
though to avoid a sword-thrust. “Silence, you ill-omened witch, with
your talk of God and judgment. It is too late, I tell you, it is too
late; my hands are too red with blood, my heart is too black with sin,
upon the tablets of my mind is written too long a record. What more can
this one crime matter, and—do you understand?—I must have money, money
to buy my pleasures, money to make my last years happy, and my deathbed
soft. I have suffered enough, I have toiled enough, and I will win
wealth and peace who am now once more a beggar. Yes, had you twenty
husbands, I would crush the life out of all of them inch by inch to win
the gold that I desire.”
As he spoke and the passions in him broke through their crust of
cunning and reserve, his face changed. Now Lysbeth, watching for some
sign of pity, knew that hope was dead, for his countenance was as it
had been on that day six-and-twenty years ago, when she sat at his side
while the great race was run. There was the same starting eyeball, the
same shining fangs appeared between the curled lips, and above them the
moustachios, now grown grey, touched the high cheekbones. It was as in
the fable of the weremen, who, at a magic sign or word, put off their
human aspect and become beasts. So it had chanced to the spirit of
Montalvo, shining through his flesh like some baleful marsh-light
through the mist. It was a thing which God had forgotten, a thing that
had burst the kindly mould of its humanity, and wrapt itself in the
robe and mask of such a wolf as might raven about the cliffs of hell.
Only there was fear on the face of the wolf, that inhuman face which,
this side of the grave, she was yet destined to see once more.
The fit passed, and Montalvo sank down gasping, while even in her woe
and agony Lysbeth shuddered at this naked vision of a Satan-haunted
soul.
“I have one more thing to ask,” she said. “Since my husband must die,
suffer that I die with him. Will you refuse this also, and cause the
cup of your crimes to flow over, and the last angel of God’s mercy to
flee away?”
“Yes,” he answered. “You, woman with the evil eye, do you suppose that
I wish you here to bring all the ills you prate of upon my head? I say
that I am afraid of you. Why, for your sake, once, years ago, I made a
vow to the Blessed Virgin that, whatever I worked on men, I would never
again lift a hand against a woman. To that oath I look to help me at
the last, for I have kept it sacredly, and am keeping it now, else by
this time both you and the girl, Elsa, might have been stretched upon
the rack. No, Lysbeth, get you gone, and take your curses with you,”
and he snatched and rang the bell.
A soldier entered the room, saluted, and asked his commands.
“Take this order,” he said, “to the officer in charge of the heretic,
Dirk van Goorl; it details the method of his execution. Let it be
strictly adhered to, and report made to me each morning of the
condition of the prisoner. Stay, show this lady from the prison.”
The man saluted again and went out of the door. After him followed
Lysbeth. She spoke no more, but as she passed she looked at Montalvo,
and he knew well that though she might be gone, yet her curse remained
behind.
The plague was on her, the plague was on her, her head and bones were
racked with pain, and the swords of sorrow pierced her poor heart. But
Lysbeth’s mind was still clear, and her limbs still supported her. She
reached her home and walked upstairs to the sitting room, commanding
the servant to find the Heer Adrian and bid him join her there.
In the room was Elsa, who ran to her crying,
“Is it true? Is it true?”
“It is true, daughter, that Foy and Martin have escaped——”
“Oh! God is good!” wept the girl.
“And that my husband is a prisoner and condemned to death.”
“Ah!” gasped Elsa, “I am selfish.”
“It is natural that a woman should think first of the man she loves.
No, do not come near me; I fear that I am stricken with the pest.”
“I am not afraid of that,” answered Elsa. “Did I never tell you? As a
child I had it in The Hague.”
“That, at least, is good news among much that is very ill; but be
silent, here comes Adrian, to whom I wish to speak. Nay, you need not
leave us; it is best that you should learn the truth.”
Presently Adrian entered, and Elsa, watching everything, noticed that
he looked sadly changed and ill.
“You sent for me, mother,” he began, with some attempt at his old
pompous air. Then he caught sight of her face and was silent.
“I have been to the Gevangenhuis, Adrian,” she said, “and I have news
to tell you. As you may have heard, your brother Foy and our servant
Martin have escaped, I know not whither. They escaped out of the very
jaws of worse than death, out of the torture-chamber, indeed, by
killing that wretch who was known as the Professor, and the warden of
the gate, Martin carrying Foy, who is wounded, upon his back.”
“I am indeed rejoiced,” cried Adrian excitedly.
“Hypocrite, be silent,” hissed his mother, and he knew that the worst
had overtaken him.
“My husband, your stepfather, has not escaped; he is in the prison
still, for there I have just bidden him farewell, and the sentence upon
him is that he shall be starved to death in a cell overlooking the
kitchen.”
“Oh! oh!” cried Elsa, and Adrian groaned.
“It was my good, or my evil, fortune,” went on Lysbeth, in a voice of
ice, “to see the written evidence upon which my husband, your brother
Foy, and Martin were condemned to death, on the grounds of heresy,
rebellion, and the killing of the king’s servants. At the foot of it,
duly witnessed, stands the signature of—Adrian van Goorl.”
Elsa’s jaw fell. She stared at the traitor like one paralysed, while
Adrian, seizing the back of a chair, rested upon it, and rocked his
body to and fro.
“Have you anything to say?” asked Lysbeth.
There was still one chance for the wretched man—had he been more
dishonest than he was. He might have denied all knowledge of the
signature. But to do this never occurred to him. Instead, he plunged
into a wandering, scarcely intelligible, explanation, for even in his
dreadful plight his vanity would not permit him to tell all the truth
before Elsa. Moreover, in that fearful silence, soon he became utterly
bewildered, till at length he hardly knew what he was saying, and in
the end came to a full stop.
“I understand you to admit that you signed this paper in the house of
Hague Simon, and in the presence of a man called Ramiro, who is
Governor of the prison, and who showed it to me,” said Lysbeth, lifting
her head which had sunk upon her breast.
“Yes, mother, I signed something, but——”
“I wish to hear no more,” interrupted Lysbeth. “Whether your motive was
jealousy, or greed, or wickedness of heart, or fear, you signed that
which, had you been a man, you would have suffered yourself to be torn
to pieces with redhot pincers before you put a pen to it. Moreover, you
gave your evidence fully and freely, for I have read it, and supported
it with the severed finger of the woman Meg which you stole from Foy’s
room. You are the murderer of your benefactor and of your mother’s
heart, and the would-be murderer of your brother and of Martin Roos.
When you were born, the mad wife, Martha, who nursed me, counselled
that you should be put to death, lest you should live to bring evil
upon me and mine. I refused, and you have brought the evil upon us all,
but most, I think, upon your own soul. I do not curse you, I call down
no ill upon you; Adrian, I give you over into the hands of God to deal
with as He sees fit. Here is money”—and, going to her desk, she took
from it a heavy purse of gold which had been prepared for their flight,
and thrust it into the pocket of his doublet, wiping her fingers upon
her kerchief after she had touched him. “Go hence and never let me see
your face again. You were born of my body, you are my flesh and blood,
but for this world and the next I renounce you, Adrian. Bastard, I know
you not. Murderer, get you gone.”
Adrian fell upon the ground; he grovelled before his mother trying to
kiss the hem of her dress, while Elsa sobbed aloud hysterically. But
Lysbeth spurned him in the face with her foot, saying,
“Get you gone before I call up such servants as are left to me to
thrust you to the street.”
Then Adrian rose and with great gasps of agony, like some sore-wounded
thing, crept from that awful and majestic presence of outraged
motherhood, crept down the stairs and away into the city.
When he had gone Lysbeth took pen and paper and wrote in large letters
these words:—
“Notice to all the good citizens of Leyden. Adrian, called van Goorl,
upon whose written evidence his stepfather, Dirk van Goorl, his
half-brother, Foy van Goorl, and the serving-man, Martin Roos, have
been condemned to death in the Gevangenhuis by torment, starvation,
water, fire, and sword, is known here no longer. Lysbeth van Goorl.”
Then she called a servant and gave orders that this paper should be
nailed upon the front door of the house where every passer-by might
read it.
“It is done,” she said. “Cease weeping, Elsa, and lead me to my bed,
whence I pray God that I may never rise again.”
Two days went by, and a fugitive rode into the city, a worn and wounded
man of Leyden, with horror stamped upon his face.
“What news?” cried the people in the market-place, recognising him.
“Mechlin! Mechlin!” he gasped. “I come from Mechlin.”
“What of Mechlin and its citizens?” asked Pieter van de Werff, stepping
forward.
“Don Frederic has taken it; the Spaniards have butchered them;
everyone, old and young, men, women, and children, they are all
butchered. I escaped, but for two leagues and more I heard the sound of
the death-wail of Mechlin. Give me wine.”
They gave him wine, and by slow degrees, in broken sentences, he told
the tale of one of the most awful crimes ever committed in the name of
Christ by cruel man against God and his own fellows. It was written
large in history: we need not repeat it here.
Then, when they knew the truth, up from that multitude of the men of
Leyden went a roar of wrath, and a cry to vengeance for their
slaughtered kin. They took arms, each what he had, the burgher his
sword, the fisherman his fish-spear, the boor his ox-goad or his pick;
leaders sprang up to command them, and there arose a shout of “To the
gates! To the Gevangenhuis! Free the prisoners!”
They surged round the hateful place, thousands of them. The drawbridge
was up, but they bridged the moat. Some shots were fired at them, then
the defence ceased. They battered in the massive doors, and, when these
fell, rushed to the dens and loosed those who remained alive within
them.
But they found no Spaniards, for by now Ramiro and his garrison had
vanished away, whither they knew not. A voice cried, “Dirk van Goorl,
seek for Dirk van Goorl,” and they came to the chamber overlooking the
courtyard, shouting, “Van Goorl, we are here!”
They broke in the door, and there they found him, lying upon his
pallet, his hands clasped, his face upturned, smitten suddenly dead,
not by man, but by the poison of the plague.
Unfed and untended, the end had overtaken him very swiftly.
BOOK THE THIRD
THE HARVESTING