THE RED MILL
After a week’s experience of that delectable dwelling and its
neighbourhood, Adrian began to grow weary of the Red Mill. Nine or ten
Dutch miles to the nor’west of Haarlem is a place called Velsen,
situated on the borders of the sand-dunes, to the south of what is
known to-day as the North Sea Canal. In the times of which this page of
history tells, however, the canal was represented by a great drainage
dyke, and Velsen was but a deserted village. Indeed, hereabouts all the
country was deserted, for some years before a Spanish force had passed
through it, burning, slaying, laying waste, so that few were left to
tend the windmills and repair the dyke. Holland is a country won from
swamps and seas, and if the water is not pumped out of it, and the
ditches are not cleaned, very quickly it relapses into primeval marsh;
indeed, it is fortunate if the ocean, bursting through the feeble
barriers reared by the industry of man, does not turn it into vast
lagoons of salt water.
Once the Red Mill had been a pumping station, which, when the huge
sails worked, delivered the water from the fertile meadows into the
great dyke, whence it ran through sluice gates to the North Sea. Now,
although the embankment of this dyke still held, the meadows had gone
back into swamps. Rising out of these—for it was situated upon a low
mound of earth, raised, doubtless, as a point of refuge by
marsh-dwellers who lived and died before history began, towered the
wreck of a narrow-waisted windmill, built of brick below and wood
above, of very lonesome and commanding appearance in its gaunt
solitude. There were no houses near it, no cattle grazed about its
foot; it was a dead thing in a dead landscape. To the left, but
separated from it by a wide and slimy dyke, whence in times of flood
the thick, brackish water trickled to the plain, stretched an arid area
of sand-dunes, clothed with sparse grass, that grew like bristles upon
the back of a wild hog. Beyond these dunes the ocean roared and moaned
and whispered hungrily as the wind and weather stirred its depths. In
front, not fifty paces away, ran the big dyke like a raised road,
secured by embankments, and discharging day by day its millions of
gallons of water into the sea. But these embankments were weakening
now, and here and there could be seen a spot which looked as though a
giant ploughshare had been drawn up them, for a groove of brown earth
scarred the face of green, where in some winter flood the water had
poured over to find its level, cutting them like cheese, but when its
volume sank, leaving them still standing, and as yet sufficient for
their purpose.
To the right again and behind, were more marshes, broken only in the
distance by the towers of Haarlem and the spires of village churches,
marshes where the snipe and bittern boomed, the herons fed, and in
summer the frogs croaked all night long.
Such was the refuge to which Ramiro and his son, Adrian, had been led
by Hague Simon and Black Meg, after they had escaped with their lives
from Leyden upon the night of the image-breaking in the church, that
ominous night when the Abbe Dominic gave up the ghost on the arm of the
lofty Rood, and Adrian had received absolution and baptism from his
consecrated hand.
On the journey hither Adrian asked no questions as to their
destination; he was too broken in heart and too shaken in body to be
curious; life in those days was for him too much of a hideous
phantasmagoria of waste and blackness out of which appeared vengeful,
red-handed figures, out of which echoed dismal, despairing voices
calling him to doom.
They came to the place and found its great basement and the floors
above, or some of them, furnished after a fashion. The mill had been
inhabited, and recently, as Adrian gathered, by smugglers, or thieves,
with whom Meg and Simon were in alliance, or some such outcast
evil-doers who knew that here the arm of the law could not reach them.
Though, indeed, while Alva ruled in the Netherlands there was little
law to be feared by those who were rich or who dared to worship God
after their own manner.
“Why have we come here—father,” Adrian was about to add, but the word
stuck in his throat.
Ramiro shrugged his shoulders and looked round him with his one
criticising eye.
“Because our guides and friends, the worthy Simon and his wife, assure
me that in this spot alone our throats are for the present safe, and by
St. Pancras, after what we saw in the church yonder I am inclined to
agree with them. He looked a poor thing up under the roof there, the
holy Father Dominic, didn’t he, hanging up like a black spider from the
end of his cord? Bah! my backbone aches when I think of him.”
“And how long are we to stop here?”
“Till—till Don Frederic has taken Haarlem and these fat Hollanders, or
those who are left of them, lick our boots for mercy,” and he ground
his teeth, then added: “Son, do you play cards? Good, well let us have
a game. Here are dice; it will serve to turn our thoughts. Now then, a
hundred guilders on it.”
So they played and Adrian won, whereon, to his amazement, his father
paid him the money.
“What is the use of that?” asked Adrian.
“Gentlemen should always pay their debts at cards.”
“And if they cannot?”
“Then they must keep score of the amount and discharge it when they are
able. Look you, young man, everything else you may forget, but what you
lose over the dice is a debt of honour. There lives no man who can say
that I cheated him of a guilder at cards, though I fear some others
have my name standing in their books.”
When they rose from their game that night Adrian had won between three
and four hundred florins. Next day his winnings amounted to a thousand
florins, for which his father gave him a carefully-executed note of
hand; but at the third sitting the luck changed or perhaps skill began
to tell, and he lost two thousand florins. These he paid up by
returning his father’s note, his own winnings, and all the balance of
the purse of gold which his mother had given to him when he was driven
from the house, so that now he was practically penniless.
The rest of the history may be guessed. At every game the stakes were
increased, for since Adrian could not pay, it was a matter of
indifference to him how much he wagered. Moreover, he found a kind of
mild excitement in playing at the handling of such great sums of money.
By the end of a week he had lost a queen’s dowry. As they rose from the
table that night his father filled in the usual form, requested him to
be so good as to sign it, and a sour-faced woman who had arrived at the
mill, Adrian knew not whence, to do the household work, to put her name
as witness.
“What is the use of this farce?” asked Adrian. “Brant’s treasure would
scarcely pay that bill.”
His father pricked his ears.
“Indeed? I lay it at as much again. What is the use? Who knows—one day
you might become rich, for, as the great Emperor said, ‘Fortune is a
woman who reserves her favours for the young,’ and then, doubtless,
being the man of honour that you are, you would wish to pay your old
gambling debts.”
“Oh! yes, I should pay if I could,” answered Adrian with a yawn. “But
it seems hardly worth while talking about, does it?” and he sauntered
out of the place into the open air.
His father rose, and, standing by the great peat fire, watched him
depart thoughtfully.
“Let me take stock of the position,” he said to himself. “The dear
child hasn’t a farthing left; therefore, although he is getting bored,
he can’t run away. Moreover, he owes me more money than I ever saw;
therefore, if he should chance to become the husband of the Jufvrouw
Brant, and the legal owner of her parent’s wealth, whatever
disagreements may ensue between him and me I shall have earned my share
of it in a clean and gentlemanly fashion. If, on the other hand, it
should become necessary for me to marry the young lady, which God
forbid, at least no harm is done, and he will have had the advantage of
some valuable lessons from the most accomplished card-player in Spain.
“And now what we need to enliven this detestable place is the presence
of Beauty herself. Our worthy friends should be back soon—bringing
their sheaves with them, let us hope, for otherwise matters will be
complicated. Let me see: have I thought of everything, for in such
affairs one oversight—He is a Catholic, therefore can contract a legal
marriage under the Proclamations—it was lucky I remembered that point
of law, though it nearly cost us all our lives—and the priest, I can
lay my hands on him, a discreet man, who won’t hear if the lady says
No, but filled beyond a question with the power and virtue of his holy
office. No, I have nothing to reproach myself with in the way of
precaution, nothing at all. I have sown the seed well and truly, it
remains only for Providence to give the increase, or shall I say—no, I
think not, for between the general and the private familiarity is
always odious. Well, it is time that you met with a little success and
settled down, for you have worked hard, Juan, my friend, and you are
getting old—yes, Juan, you are getting old. Bah! what a hole and what
weather!” and Montalvo established himself by the fireside to doze away
his _ennui_.
When Adrian shut the door behind him the late November day was drawing
to its close, and between the rifts in the sullen snow clouds now and
again an arrow from the westering sun struck upon the tall,
skeleton-like sails of the mill, through which the wind rushed with a
screaming noise. Adrian had intended to walk on the marsh, but finding
it too sodden, he crossed the western dyke by means of a board laid
from bank to bank, and struck into the sand-dunes beyond. Even in the
summer, when the air was still and flowers bloomed and larks sang,
these dunes were fantastic and almost unnatural in appearance, with
their deep, wind-scooped hollows of pallid sand, their sharp angles,
miniature cliffs, and their crests crowned with coarse grasses. But
now, beneath the dull pall of the winter sky, no spot in the world
could have been more lonesome or more desolate, for never a sign of man
was to be seen upon them and save for a solitary curlew, whose sad note
reached Adrian’s ears as it beat up wind from the sea, even the beasts
and birds that dwelt there had hidden themselves away. Only the voices
of Nature remained in all their majesty, the drear screams and moan of
the rushing wind, and above it, now low and now voluminous as the gale
veered, the deep and constant roar of the ocean.
Adrian reached the highest crest of the ridge, whence the sea, hidden
hitherto, became suddenly visible, a vast, slate-coloured expanse,
twisted here and there into heaps, hollowed here and there into
valleys, and broken everywhere with angry lines and areas of white. In
such trouble, for, after its own fashion, his heart was troubled, some
temperaments might have found a kind of consolation in this sight, for
while we witness them, at any rate, the throes and moods of Nature in
their greatness declare a mastery of our senses, and stun or hush to
silence the petty turmoil of our souls. This, at least, is so with
those who have eyes to read the lesson written on Nature’s face, and
ears to hear the message which day by day she delivers with her lips;
gifts given only to such as hold the cypher-key of imagination, and
pray for grace to use it.
In Adrian’s case, however, the weirdness of the sand-hills and the
grandeur of the seascape with the bitter wind that blew between and the
solitude which brooded over all, served only to exasperate nerves that
already were strained well nigh to breaking.
Why had his father brought him to this hideous swamp bordered by a
sailless sea? To save their lives from the fury of the mob? This he
understood, but there was more in it than that, some plot which he did
not understand, and which the ruffian, Hague Simon, and that she-fiend,
his companion, had gone away to execute. Meanwhile he must sit here day
after day playing cards with the wretch Ramiro, whom, for no fault of
his own, God had chosen out to be his parent. By the way, why was the
man so fond of playing cards? And what was the meaning of all that
nonsense about notes of hand? Yes, here he must sit, and for company he
had the sense of his unalterable shame, the memory of his mother’s face
as she spurned and rejected him, the vision of the woman whom he loved
and had lost, and—the ghost of Dirk van Goorl.
He shivered as he thought of it; yes, his hair lifted and his lip
twitched involuntarily, for to Adrian’s racked nerves and distorted
vision this ghost of the good man whom he had betrayed was no child of
phantasy. He had woken in the night and seen it standing at his
bedside, plague-defiled and hunger-wasted, and because of it he dreaded
to sleep alone, especially in that creaking, rat-haunted mill, whose
every board seemed charged with some tale of death and blood. Heavens!
At this very moment he thought he could hear that dead voice calling
down the gale. No, it must be the curlew, but at least he would be
going home. Home—that place home—with not even a priest near to confess
to and be comforted!
Thanks be to the Saints! the wind had dropped a little, but now in
place of it came the snow, dense, whirling, white; so dense indeed that
he could scarcely see his path. What an end that would be, to be frozen
to death in the snow on these sand-hills while the spirit of Dirk van
Goorl sat near and watched him die with those hollow, hungry eyes. The
sweat came upon Adrian’s forehead at the thought, and he broke into a
run, heading for the bank of the great dyke that pierced the dunes half
a mile or so away, which bank must, he knew, lead him to the mill. He
reached it and trudged along what had been the towpath, though now it
was overgrown with weeds and rushes. It was not a pleasant journey, for
the twilight had closed in with speed and the thick flakes, that seemed
to heap into his face and sting him, turned it into a darkness mottled
with faint white. Still he stumbled forward with bent head and
close-wrapped cloak till he judged that he must be near to the mill,
and halted staring through the gloom.
Just then the snow ceased for a while and light crept back to the cold
face of the earth, showing Adrian that he had done well to halt. In
front of where he stood, within a few paces of his feet indeed, for a
distance of quite twenty yards the lower part of the bank had slipped
away, washed from the stone core with which it was faced at this point,
by a slow and neglected percolation of water. Had he walked on
therefore, he would have fallen his own height or more into a slough of
mud, whence he might, or might not have been able to extricate himself.
As it was, however, by such light as remained he could crawl upon the
coping of the stonework which was still held in place with old struts
of timber that, until they had been denuded by the slow and constant
leakage, were buried and supported in the vanished earthwork. It was
not a pleasant bridge, for to the right lay the mud-bottomed gulf, and
to the left, almost level with his feet, were the black and peaty
waters of the rain-fed dyke pouring onwards to the sea.
“Next flood this will go,” thought Adrian to himself, “and then the
marsh must become a mere which will be bad for whomever happens to be
living in the Red Mill.” He was on firm ground again now, and there,
looming tall and spectral against the gloom, not five hundred yards
away, rose the gaunt sails of the mill. To reach it he walked on six
score paces or more to the little landing-quay, where a raised path ran
to the building. As he drew near to it he was astonished to hear the
rattle of oars working in rollocks and a man’s voice say:
“Steady, here is the place, praise the Saints! Now, then, out
passengers and let us be gone.”
Adrian, whom events had made timid, drew beneath the shadow of the bank
and watched, while from the dim outline of the boat arose three
figures, or rather two figures arose, dragging the third between them.
“Hold her,” said a voice that seemed familiar, “while I give these men
their hire,” and there followed a noise of clinking coin, mingled with
some oaths and grumbling about the weather and the distance, which were
abated with more coin. Then again the oars rattled and the boat was
pushed off, whereon a sweet voice cried in agonised tones:
“Sirs, you who have wives and daughters, will you leave me in the hands
of these wretches? In the name of God take pity upon my helplessness.”
“It is a shame, and she so fair a maid,” grumbled another thick and
raucous voice, but the steersman cried, “Mind your business, Marsh Jan.
We have done our job and got our pay, so leave the gentry to settle
their own love affairs. Good night to you, passengers; give way, give
way,” and the boat swung round and vanished into the gloom.
For a moment Adrian’s heart stood still; then he sprang forward to see
before him Hague Simon, the Butcher, Black Meg his wife, and between
them a bundle wrapped in shawls.
“What is this?” he asked.
“You ought to know, Heer Adrian,” answered Black Meg with a chuckle,
“seeing that this charming piece of goods has been brought all the way
from Leyden, regardless of expense, for your especial benefit.”
The bundle lifted its head, and the faint light shone upon the white
and terrified face of—Elsa Brant.
“May God reward you for this evil deed, Adrian, called van Goorl,” said
the pitiful voice.
“This deed! What deed?” he stammered in answer. “I know nothing of it,
Elsa Brant.”
“You know nothing of it? Yet it was done in your name, and you are here
to receive me, who was kidnapped as I walked outside Leyden to be
dragged hither with force by these monsters. Oh! have you no heart and
no fear of judgment that you can speak thus?”
“Free her,” roared Adrian, rushing at the Butcher to see a knife
gleaming in his hand and another in that of Black Meg.
“Stop your nonsense, Master Adrian, and stand back. If you have
anything to say, say it to your father, the Count. Come, let us pass,
for we are cold and weary,” and taking Elsa by the elbows they brushed
past him, nor, indeed, even had he not been too bewildered to
interfere, could Adrian have stayed them, for he was unarmed. Besides,
where would be the use, seeing that the boat had gone and that they
were alone on a winter’s night in the wind-swept wilderness, with no
refuge for miles save such as the mill house could afford. So Adrian
bent his head, for the snow had begun to fall again, and, sick at
heart, followed them along the path. Now he understood at length why
they had come to the Red Mill.
Simon opened the door and entered, but Elsa hung back at its ill-omened
threshold. She even tried to struggle a little, poor girl, whereon the
ruffian in front jerked her towards him with an oath, so that she
caught her foot and fell upon her face. This was too much for Adrian.
Springing forward he struck the Butcher full in the mouth with his
fist, and next moment they were rolling over and over each other upon
the floor, struggling fiercely for the knife which Simon held.
During all her life Elsa never forgot that scene. Behind her the
howling blackness of the night and the open door, through which flake
by flake the snow leapt into the light. In front the large round room,
fashioned from the basement of the mill, lit only by the great fire of
turfs and a single horn lantern, hung from the ceiling that was ribbed
with beams of black and massive oak. And there, in this forbidding,
naked-looking place, that rocked and quivered as the gale caught the
tall arms of the mill above, seated by the hearth in a rude chair of
wood and sleeping, one man, Ramiro, the Spanish sleuth-hound, who had
hunted down her father, he whom above every other she held in horror
and in hate; and two, Adrian and the spy, at death-grips on the floor,
between them the sheen of a naked knife.
Such was the picture.
Ramiro awoke at the noise, and there was fear on his face as though
some ill dream lingered in his brain. Next instant he saw and
understood.
“I will run the man through who strikes another blow,” he said, in a
cold clear voice as he drew his sword. “Stand up, you fools, and tell
me what this means.”
“It means that this brute beast but now threw Elsa Brant upon her
face,” gasped Adrian as he rose, “and I punished him.”
“It is a lie,” hissed the other; “I pulled the minx on, that is all,
and so would you have done, if you had been cursed with such a wild-cat
for four-and-twenty hours. Why, when we took her she was more trouble
to hold than any man.”
“Oh! I understand,” interrupted Ramiro, who had recovered his
composure; “a little maidenly reluctance, that is all, my worthy Simon,
and as for this young gentleman, a little lover-like anxiety—doubtless
in bygone years you have felt the same,” and he glanced mockingly at
Black Meg. “So do not be too ready to take offence, good Simon. Youth
will be youth.”
“And Youth will get a knife between its ribs if it is not careful,”
grumbled Hague Simon, as he spat out a piece of broken tooth.
“Why am I brought here, Señor,” broke in Elsa, “in defiance of laws and
justice?”
“Laws! Mejufvrouw, I did not know that there were any left in the
Netherlands; justice! well, all is fair in love and war, as any lady
will admit. And the reason why—I think you must ask Adrian, he knows
more about it than I do.”
“He says that he knows nothing, Señor.”
“Does he, the rogue? Does he indeed? Well, it would be rude to
contradict him, wouldn’t it, so I for one unreservedly accept his
statement that he knows nothing, and I advise you to do the same. No,
no, my boy, do not trouble to explain, we all quite understand. Now, my
good dame,” he went on addressing the serving-woman who had entered the
place, “take this young lady to the best room you have above. And,
listen, both of you, she is to be treated with all kindness, do you
hear, for if any harm comes to her, either at your hands or her own, by
Heaven! you shall pay for it to the last drop of your blood. Now, no
excuses and—no mistakes.”
The two women, Meg and the other, nodded and motioned to Elsa to
accompany them. She considered a moment, looking first at Ramiro and
next at Adrian. Then her head dropped upon her breast, and turning
without a word she followed them up the creaking oaken stair that rose
from a niche near the wall of the ingle-nook.
“Father,” said Adrian when the massive door had closed behind her and
they were left alone—“father—for I suppose that I must call you so.”
“There is not the slightest necessity,” broke in Ramiro; “facts, my
dear son, need not always be paraded in the cold light of
day—fortunately. But, proceed.”
“What does all this mean?”
“I wish I could tell you. It appears to mean, however, that without any
effort upon your part, for you seem to me a young man singularly devoid
of resource, your love affairs are prospering beyond expectation.”
“I have had nothing to do with the business; I wash my hands of it.”
“That is as well. Some sensitive people might think they need a deal of
washing. You young fool,” he went on, dropping his mocking manner,
“listen to me. You are in love with this pink and white piece of goods,
and I have brought her here for you to marry.”
“And I refuse to marry her against her will.”
“As to that you can please yourself. But somebody has got to marry
her—you, or I.”
“You—_you!_” gasped Adrian.
“Quite so. The adventure is not one, to be frank, that attracts me. At
my age memories are sufficient. But material interests must be attended
to, so if you decline—well, I am still eligible and hearty. Do you see
the point?”
“No, what is it?”
“It is a sound title to the inheritance of the departed Hendrik Brant.
That wealth we might, it is true, obtain by artifice or by arms; but
how much better that it should come into the family in a regular
fashion, thereby ousting the claim of the Crown. Things in this country
are disturbed at present, but they will not always be disturbed, for in
the end somebody must give way and order will prevail. Then questions
might be asked, for persons in possession of great riches are always
the mark of envy. But if the heiress is married to a good Catholic and
loyal subject of the king, who can cavil at rights sanctified by the
laws of God and man? Think it over, my dear Adrian, think it over.
Step-mother or wife—you can take your choice.”
With impotent rage, with turmoil of heart and torment of conscience,
Adrian did think it over. All that night he thought, tossing on his
rat-haunted pallet, while without the snow whirled and the wind beat.
If he did not marry Elsa, his father would, and there could be no doubt
as to which of these alternatives would be best and happiest for her.
Elsa married to that wicked, cynical, devil-possessed, battered,
fortune-hunting adventurer with a nameless past! This must be prevented
at any cost. With his father her lot _must_ be a hell; with
himself—after a period of storm and doubt perhaps—it could scarcely be
other than happy, for was he not young, handsome, sympathetic,
and—devoted? Ah! there was the real point. He loved this lady with all
the earnestness of which his nature was capable, and the thought of her
passing into the possession of another man gave him the acutest
anguish. That the man should be Foy, his half-brother, was bad enough;
that it should be Ramiro, his father, was insupportable.
At breakfast the following morning, when Elsa did not appear, the pair
met.
“You look pale, Adrian,” said his father presently. “I fear that this
wild weather kept you awake last night, as it did me, although at your
age I have slept through the roar of a battle. Well, have you thought
over our conversation? I do not wish to trouble you with these
incessant family matters, but times presses, and it is necessary to
decide.”
Adrian looked out of the lattice at the snow, which fell and fell
without pause. Then he turned and said:
“Yes. Of the two it is best that she should marry me, though I think
that such a crime will bring its own reward.”
“Wise young man,” answered his father. “Under all your cloakings of
vagary I observe that you have a foundation of common-sense, just as
the giddiest weathercock is bedded on a stone. As for the reward,
considered properly it seems to be one upon which I can heartily
congratulate you.”
“Peace to that talk,” said Adrian, angrily; “you forget that there are
two parties to such a contract; her consent must be gained, and I will
not ask it.”
“No? Then I will; a few arguments occur to me. Now look here, friend,
we have struck a bargain, and you will be so good as to keep it or to
take the consequences—oh! never mind what they are. I will bring this
lady to the altar—or, rather, to that table, and you will marry her,
after which you can settle matters just exactly as you please; live
with her as your wife, or make your bow and walk away, which, I care
nothing so long as you are married. Now I am weary of all this talk, so
be so good as to leave me in peace on the subject.”
Adrian looked at him, opened his lips to speak, then changed his mind
and marched out of the house into the blinding snow.
“Thank Heaven he is gone at last!” reflected his father, and called for
Hague Simon, with whom he held a long and careful interview.
“You understand?” he ended.
“I understand,” answered Simon, sulkily. “I am to find this priest, who
should be waiting at the place you name, and to bring him here by
nightfall to-morrow, which is a rough job for a Christian man in such
weather as this.”
“The pay, friend Simon, remember the pay.”
“Oh! yes, it all sounds well enough, but I should like something on
account.”
“You shall have it—is not such a labourer worthy of his hire?” replied
his employer with enthusiasm, and producing from his pocket the purse
which Lysbeth had given Adrian, with a smile of peculiar satisfaction,
for really the thing had a comic side, he counted a handsome sum into
the hand of this emissary of Venus.
Simon looked at the money, concluded, after some reflection, that it
would scarcely do to stand out for more at present, pouched it, and
having wrapped himself in a thick frieze coat, opened the door and
vanished into the falling snow.