Lysbeth: Chapter 18

Chapter 18

FOY SEES A VISION

Never since that day when, many years before, she had bought the safety
of the man she loved by promising herself in marriage to his rival, had
Lysbeth slept so ill as she did upon this night. Montalvo was alive.
Montalvo was here, here to strike down and destroy those whom she loved,
and triple armed with power, authority, and desire to do the deed. Well
she knew that when there was plunder to be won, he would not step aside
or soften until it was in his hands. Yet there was hope in this; he was
not a cruel man, as she knew also, that is to say, he had no pleasure
in inflicting suffering for its own sake; such methods he used only as a
means to an end. If he could get the money, all of it, she was sure that
he would leave them alone. Why should he not have it? Why should all
their lives be menaced because of this trust which had been thrust upon
them?

Unable to endure the torments of her doubts and fears, Lysbeth woke her
husband, who was sleeping peacefully at her side, and told him what was
passing in her mind.

"It is a true saying," answered Dirk with a smile, "that even the best
of women are never quite honest when their interest pulls the other way.
What, wife, would you have us buy our own peace with Brant's fortune,
and thus break faith with a dead man and bring down his curse upon us?"

"The lives of men are more than gold, and Elsa would consent," she
answered sullenly; "already this pelf is stained with blood, the blood
of Hendrik Brant himself, and of Hans the pilot."

"Yes, wife, and since you mention it, with the blood of a good many
Spaniards also, who tried to steal the stuff. Let's see; there must have
been several drowned at the mouth of the river, and quite twenty went
up with the _Swallow_, so the loss has not been all on our side. Listen,
Lysbeth, listen. It was my cousin, Hendrik Brant's, belief that in the
end this great fortune of his would do some service to our people or our
country, for he wrote as much in his will and repeated it to Foy. I know
not when or in what fashion this may come about; how can I know? But
first will I die before I hand it over to the Spaniard. Moreover, I
cannot, since its secret was never told to me."

"Foy and Martin have it."

"Lysbeth," said Dirk sternly, "I charge you as you love me not to work
upon them to betray their trust; no, not even to save my life or your
own--if we must die, let us die with honour. Do you promise?"

"I promise," she answered with dry lips, "but on this condition only,
that you fly from Leyden with us all, to-night if maybe."

"Good," answered Dirk, "a halfpenny for a herring; you have made your
promise, and I'll give you mine; that's fair, although I am old to seek
a new home in England. But it can't be to-night, wife, for I must make
arrangements. There is a ship sailing to-day, and we might catch her
to-morrow at the river's mouth, after she has passed the officers, for
her captain is a friend of mine. How will that do?"

"I had rather it had been to-night," said Lysbeth. "While we are in
Leyden with that man we are not safe from one hour to the next."

"Wife, we are never safe. It is all in the hands of God, and, therefore,
we should live like soldiers awaiting the hour to march, and rejoice
exceedingly when it pleases our Captain to sound the call."

"I know," she answered; "but, oh! Dirk, it would be hard--to part."

He turned his head aside for a moment, then said in a steady voice,
"Yes, wife, but it will be sweet to meet again and part no more."

While it was still early that morning Dirk summoned Foy and Martin to
his wife's chamber. Adrian for his own reasons he did not summon, making
the excuse that he was still asleep, and it would be a pity to disturb
him; nor Elsa, since as yet there was no necessity to trouble her.
Then, briefly, for he was given to few words, he set out the gist of
the matter, telling them that the man Ramiro whom they had beaten on the
Haarlemer Meer was in Leyden, which Foy knew already, for Elsa had told
him as much, and that he was no other than the Spaniard named the Count
Juan de Montalvo, the villain who had deceived Lysbeth into a mock
marriage by working on her fears, and who was the father of Adrian. All
this time Lysbeth sat in a carved oak chair listening with a stony
face to the tale of her own shame and betrayal. She made no sign at all
beyond a little twitching of her fingers, till Foy, guessing what she
suffered in her heart, suddenly went to his mother and kissed her. Then
she wept a few silent tears, for an instant laid her hand upon his head
as though in blessing, and, motioning him back to his place, became
herself again--stern, unmoved, observant.

Next Dirk, taking up his tale, spoke of his wife's fears, and of her
belief that there was a plot to wring out of them the secret of Hendrik
Brant's treasure.

"Happily," he said, addressing Foy, "neither your mother nor I, nor
Adrian, nor Elsa, know that secret; you and Martin know it alone, you
and perhaps one other who is far away and cannot be caught. We do not
know it, and we do not wish to know it, and whatever happens to any of
us, it is our earnest hope that neither of you will betray it, even if
our lives, or your lives, hang upon the words, for we hold it better
that we should keep our trust with a dead man at all costs than that we
should save ourselves by breaking faith. Is it not so, wife?"

"It is so," answered Lysbeth hoarsely.

"Have no fear," said Foy. "We will die before we betray."

"We will try to die before we betray," grumbled Martin in his deep
voice, "but flesh is frail and God knows."

"Oh! I have no doubt of you, honest man," said Dirk with a smile, "for
you have no mother and father to think of in this matter."

"Then, master, you are foolish," replied Martin, "for I repeat it--flesh
is frail, and I always hated the look of a rack. However, I have a
handsome legacy charged upon this treasure, and perhaps the thought of
that would support me. Alive or dead, I should not like to think of my
money being spent by any Spaniard."

While Martin spoke the strangeness of the thing came home to Foy. Here
were four of them, two of whom knew a secret and two who did not, while
those who did not implored those who did to impart to them nothing of
the knowledge which, if they had it, might serve to save them from a
fearful doom. Then for the first time in his young and inexperienced
life he understood how great erring men and women can be and what
patient majesty dwells in the human heart, that for the sake of a trust
it does not seek can yet defy the most hideous terrors of the body
and the soul. Indeed, that scene stamped itself upon his mind in such
fashion that throughout his long existence he never quite forgot it for
a single day. His mother, clad in her frilled white cap and grey gown,
seated cold-faced and resolute in the oaken chair. His father, to whom,
although he knew it not, he was now speaking for the last time, standing
by her, his hand resting upon her shoulder and addressing them in his
quiet, honest voice. Martin standing also but a little to one side and
behind, the light of the morning playing upon his great red beard; his
round, pale eyes glittering as was their fashion when wrathful, and
himself, Foy, leaning forward to listen, every nerve in his body strung
tight with excitement, love, and fear.

Oh! he never forgot it, which is not strange, for so great was the
strain upon him, so well did he know that this scene was but the prelude
to terrible events, that for a moment, only for a moment, his steady
reason was shaken and he saw a vision. Martin, the huge, patient,
ox-like Martin, was changed into a red Vengeance; he saw him, great
sword aloft, he heard the roar of his battle cry, and lo! before him
men went down to death, and about him the floor seemed purple with their
blood. His father and his mother, too; they were no longer human, they
were saints--see the glory which shone over them, and look, too, the
dead Hendrik Brant was whispering in their ears. And he, Foy, he was
beside Martin playing his part in those red frays as best he might, and
playing it not in vain.

Then all passed, and a wave of peace rolled over him, a great sense of
duty done, of honour satisfied, of reward attained. Lo! the play was
finished, and its ultimate meaning clear, but before he could read and
understand--it had gone.

He gasped and shook himself, gripping his hands together.

"What have you seen, son?" asked Lysbeth, watching his face.

"Strange things, mother," Foy answered. "A vision of war for Martin and
me, of glory for my father and you, and of eternal peace for us all."

"It is a good omen, Foy," she said. "Fight your fight and leave us to
fight ours. 'Through much tribulation we must enter into the Kingdom of
God,' where at last there is a rest remaining for us all. It is a good
omen. Your father was right and I was wrong. Now I have no more to fear;
I am satisfied."

None of them seemed to be amazed or to find these words wonderful and
out of the common. For them the hand of approaching Doom had opened the
gates of Distance, and they knew everyone that through these some light
had broken on their souls, a faint flicker of dawn from beyond the
clouds. They accepted it in thankfulness.

"I think that is all I have to say," said Dirk in his usual voice. "No,
it is not all," and he told them of his plan for flight. They listened
and agreed to it, yet to them it seemed a thing far off and unreal. None
of them believed that this escape would ever be carried out. All of them
believed that here in Leyden they would endure the fiery trial of their
faith and win each of them its separate crown.

When everything was discussed, and each had learned the lesson of what
he must do that day, Foy asked if Adrian was to be told of the scheme.
To this his father answered hastily that the less it was spoken of the
better, therefore he proposed to tell Adrian late that night only, when
he could make up his mind whether he would accompany them or stay in
Leyden.

"Then he shan't go out to-night, and will come with us as far as the
ship only if I can manage it," muttered Martin beneath his breath, but
aloud he said nothing. Somehow it did not seem to him to be worth while
to make trouble about it, for he knew that if he did his mistress and
Foy, who believed so heartily in Adrian, would be angry.

"Father and mother," said Foy again, "while we are gathered here there
is something I wish to say to you."

"What is it, son?" asked Dirk.

"Yesterday I became affianced to Elsa Brant, and we wish to ask your
consent and blessing."

"That will be gladly given, son, for I think this very good news. Bring
her here, Foy," answered Dirk.

But although in his hurry Foy did not notice it, his mother said
nothing. She liked Elsa well indeed--who would not?--but oh! this
brought them a step nearer to that accursed treasure, the treasure which
from generation to generation had been hoarded up that it might be a
doom to men. If Foy were affianced to Elsa, it was his inheritance as
well as hers, for those trusts of Hendrik Brant's will were to Lysbeth
things unreal and visionary, and its curse would fall upon him as well
as upon her. Moreover it might be said that he was marrying her to win
the wealth.

"This betrothal does not please you; you are sad, wife," said Dirk,
looking at her quickly.

"Yes, husband, for now I think that we shall never get out of Leyden. I
pray that Adrian may not hear of it, that is all."

"Why, what has he to do with the matter?"

"Only that he is madly in love with the girl. Have you not seen it?
And--you know his temper."

"Adrian, Adrian, always Adrian," answered Dirk impatiently. "Well, it is
a very fitting match, for if she has a great fortune hidden somewhere in
a swamp, which in fact she has not, since the bulk of it is bequeathed
to me to be used for certain purposes; he has, or will have, moneys
also--safe at interest in England. Hark! here they come, so, wife, put
on a pleasant face; they will think it unlucky if you do not smile."

As he spoke Foy re-entered the room, leading Elsa by the hand, and she
looked as sweet a maid as ever the sun shone on. So they told their
story, and kneeling down before Dirk, received his blessing in the old
fashion, and very glad were they in the after years to remember that it
had been so received. Then they turned to Lysbeth, and she also lifted
up her hand to bless them, but ere it touched their heads, do what she
would to check it, a cry forced its way to her lips, and she said:

"Oh! children, doubtless you love each other well, but is this a time
for marrying and giving in marriage?"

"My own words, my very words," exclaimed Elsa, springing to her feet and
turning pale.

Foy looked vexed. Then recovering himself and trying to smile, he said:

"And I give them the same answer--that two are better than one;
moreover, this is a betrothal, not a marriage."

"Ay," muttered Martin behind, thinking aloud after his fashion,
"betrothal is one thing and marriage another," but low as he spoke Elsa
overheard him.

"Your mother is upset," broke in Dirk, "and you can guess why, so do not
disturb her more at present. Let us to our business, you and Martin to
the factory to make arrangements there as I have told you, and I, after
I have seen the captain, to whatever God shall call me to do. So, till
we meet again, farewell, my son--and daughter," he added, smiling at
Elsa.

They left the room, but as Martin was following them Lysbeth called him
back.

"Go armed to the factory, Martin," she said, "and see that your young
master wears that steel shirt beneath his jerkin."

Martin nodded and went.

Adrian woke up that morning in an ill mood. He had, it is true,
administered his love potion with singular dexterity and success, but as
yet he reaped no fruit from his labours, and was desperately afraid lest
the effect of the magic draught might wear off. When he came downstairs
it was to find that Foy and Martin were already departed to the factory,
and that his stepfather had gone out, whither he knew not. This was so
much to the good, for it left the coast clear. Still he was none the
better off, since either his mother and Elsa had taken their breakfast
upstairs, or they had dispensed with that meal. His mother he could
spare, especially after her recent contact with a plague patient, but
under the circumstances Elsa's absence was annoying. Moreover, suddenly
the house had become uncomfortable, for every one in it seemed to be
running about carrying articles hither and thither in a fashion so
aimless that it struck him as little short of insane. Once or twice
also he saw Elsa, but she, too, was carrying things, and had no time for
conversation.

At length Adrian wearied of it and departed to the factory with the
view of making up his books, which, to tell the truth, had been somewhat
neglected of late, to find that here, too, the same confusion reigned.
Instead of attending to his ordinary work, Martin was marching to and
fro bearing choice pieces of brassware, which were being packed into
crates, and he noticed, for Adrian was an observant young man, that he
was not wearing his usual artisan's dress. Why, he wondered to himself,
should Martin walk about a factory upon a summer's day clad in his
armour of quilted bull's hide, and wearing his great sword Silence
strapped round his middle? Why, too, should Foy have removed the books
and be engaged in going through them with a clerk? Was he auditing
them? If so, he wished him joy of the job, since to bring them to a
satisfactory balance had proved recently quite beyond his own powers.
Not that there was anything wrong with the books, for he, Adrian, had
kept them quite honestly according to his very imperfect lights, only
things must have been left out, for balance they would not. Well, on the
whole, he was glad, since a man filled with lover's hopes and fears was
in no mood for arithmetical exercises, so, after hanging about for a
while, he returned home to dinner.

The meal was late, an unusual occurrence, which annoyed him; moreover,
neither his mother nor his stepfather appeared at table. At length Elsa
came in looking pale and worried, and they began to eat, or rather to
go through the form of eating, since neither of them seemed to have any
appetite. Nor, as the servant was continually in the room, and as Elsa
took her place at one end of the long table while he was at the other,
had their _tete-a-tete_ any of the usual advantages.

At last the waiting-woman went away, and, after a few moment's pause,
Elsa rose to follow. By this time Adrian was desperate. He would bear it
no more; things must be brought to a head.

"Elsa," he said, in an irritated voice, "everything seems to be very
uncomfortable here to-day, there is so much disturbance in the house
that one might imagine we were going to shut it up and leave Leyden."

Elsa looked at him out of the corners of her eyes; probably by this time
she had learnt the real cause of the disturbance.

"I am sorry, Heer Adrian," she said, "but your mother is not very well
this morning."

"Indeed; I only hope she hasn't caught the plague from the Jansen woman;
but that doesn't account for everybody running about with their hands
full, like ants in a broken nest, especially as it is not the time
of year when women turn all the furniture upside down and throw the
curtains out of the windows in the pretence that they are cleaning them.
However, we are quiet here for a while, so let us talk."

Elsa became suspicious. "Your mother wants me, Heer Adrian," she said,
turning towards the door.

"Let her rest, Elsa, let her rest; there is no medicine like sleep for
the sick."

Elsa pretended not to hear him, so, as she still headed for the door, by
a movement too active to be dignified, he placed himself in front of it,
adding, "I have said that I want to speak with you."

"And I have said that I am busy, Heer Adrian, so please let me pass."

Adrian remained immovable. "Not until I have spoken to you," he said.

Now as escape was impossible Elsa drew herself up and asked in a cold
voice:

"What is your pleasure? I pray you, be brief."

Adrian cleared his throat, reflecting that she was keeping the workings
of the love potion under wonderful control; indeed to look at her no
one could have guessed that she had recently absorbed this magic Eastern
medicine. However, something must be done; he had gone too far to draw
back.

"Elsa," he said boldly, though no hare could have been more frightened,
"Elsa," and he clasped his hands and looked at the ceiling, "I love you
and the time has come to say so."

"If I remember right it came some time ago, Heer Adrian," she replied
with sarcasm. "I thought that by now you had forgotten all about it."

"Forgotten!" he sighed, "forgotten! With you ever before my eyes how can
I forget?"

"I am sure I cannot say," she answered, "but I know that I wish to
forget this folly."

"Folly! She calls it folly!" he mused aloud. "Oh, Heaven, folly is the
name she gives to the life-long adoration of my bleeding heart!"

"You have known me exactly five weeks, Heer Adrian----"

"Which, sweet lady, makes me desire to know you for fifty years."

Elsa sighed, for she found the prospect dreary.

"Come," he went on with a gush, "forego this virgin coyness, you have
done enough and more than enough for honour, now throw aside pretence,
lay down your arms and yield. No hour, I swear, of this long fight will
be so happy to you as that of your sweet surrender, for remember,
dear one, that I, your conqueror, am in truth the conquered. I,
abandoning----"

He got no further, for at this point the sorely tried Elsa lost control
of herself, but not in the fashion which he hoped for and expected.

"Are you crazed, Heer Adrian," she asked, "that you should insist thus
in pouring this high-flown nonsense into my ears when I have told you
that it is unwelcome to me? I understand that you ask me for my love.
Well, once for all I tell you that I have none to give."

This was a blow, since it was impossible for Adrian to put a
favourable construction upon language so painfully straightforward. His
self-conceit was pierced at last and collapsed like a pricked bladder.

"None to give!" he gasped, "none to give! You don't mean to tell me that
you have given it to anybody else?"

"Yes, I do," she answered, for by now Elsa was thoroughly angry.

"Indeed," he replied loftily. "Let me see; last time it was your
lamented father who occupied your heart. Perhaps now it is that
excellent giant, Martin, or even--no, it is too absurd"--and he laughed
in his jealous rage, "even the family buffoon, my worthy brother Foy."

"Yes," she replied quietly, "it is Foy."

"Foy! Foy! Hear her, ye gods! My successful rival, mine, is the
yellow-headed, muddy-brained, unlettered Foy--and they say that women
have souls! Of your courtesy answer me one question. Tell me when did
this strange and monstrous thing happen? When did you declare yourself
vanquished by the surpassing charms of Foy?"

"Yesterday afternoon, if you want to know," she said in the same calm
and ominous voice.

Adrian heard, and an inspiration took him. He dashed his hand to his
brow and thought a moment; then he laughed loud and shrilly.

"I have it," he said. "It is the love charm which has worked perversely.
Elsa, you are under a spell, poor woman; you do not know the truth. I
gave you the philtre in your drinking water, and Foy, the traitor
Foy, has reaped its fruits. Dear girl, shake yourself free from this
delusion, it is I whom you really love, not that base thief of hearts,
my brother Foy."

"What do you say? You gave me a philtre? You dare to doctor my drink
with your heathen nastiness? Out of the way, sir! Stand off, and never
venture to speak to me again. Well will it be for you if I do not tell
your brother of your infamy."

What happened after this Adrian could never quite remember, but a vision
remained of himself crouching to one side, and of a door flung back so
violently that it threw him against the wall; a vision, too, of a lady
sweeping past him with blazing eyes and lips set in scorn. That was all.

For a while he was crushed, quite crushed; the blow had gone home.
Adrian was not only a fool, he was also the vainest of fools. That
any young woman on whom he chose to smile should actually reject his
advances was bad and unexpected, but that the other man should be
Foy--oh! this was infamous and inexplicable. He was handsomer than Foy,
no one would dream of denying it. He was cleverer and better read, had
he not mastered the contents of every known romance--high-souled works
which Foy bluntly declared were rubbish and refused even to open? Was
he not a poet? But remembering a certain sonnet he did not follow this
comparison. In short, how was it conceivable that a woman looking
upon himself, a very type of the chivalry of Spain, silver-tongued, a
follower--nay, a companion of the Muses, one to whom in every previous
adventure of the heart to love had been to conquer, could still prefer
that broad-faced, painfully commonplace, if worthy, young representative
of the Dutch middle classes, Foy van Goorl?

It never occurred to Adrian to ask himself another question, namely,
how it comes about that eight young women out of ten are endowed with
an intelligence or instinct sufficiently keen to enable them to
discriminate between an empty-headed popinjay of a man, intoxicated
with the fumes of his own vanity, and an honest young fellow of
stable character and sterling worth? Not that Adrian was altogether
empty-headed, for in some ways he was clever; also beneath all this foam
and froth the Dutch strain inherited from his mother had given a certain
ballast and determination to his nature. Thus, when his heart was
thoroughly set upon a thing, he could be very dogged and patient. Now
it _was_ set upon Elsa Brant, he did truly desire to win her above any
other woman, and that he had left a different impression upon her
mind was owing largely to the affected air and grandiloquent style of
language culled from his precious romances which he thought it right to
assume when addressing a lady upon matters of the affections.

For a little while he was prostrate, his heart seemed swept clean of all
hope and feeling. Then his furious temper, the failing that, above every
other, was his curse and bane, came to his aid and occupied it like the
seven devils of Scripture, bringing in its train his re-awakened vanity,
hatred, jealousy, and other maddening passions. It could not be true,
there must be an explanation, and, of course, the explanation was that
Foy had been so fortunate, or so cunning as to make advances to Elsa
soon after she had swallowed the love philtre. Adrian, like most people
in his day, was very superstitious and credulous. It never even occurred
to him to doubt the almost universally accepted power and efficacy of
this witch's medicine, though even now he understood what a fool he was
when, in his first outburst of rage, he told Elsa that he had trusted to
such means to win her affections, instead of letting his own virtues and
graces do their natural work.

Well, the mischief was done, the poison was swallowed, but--most poisons
have their antidotes. Why was he lingering here? He must consult his
friend, the Master, and at once.

Ten minutes later Adrian was at Black Meg's house.

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