CHAPTER IV
THREE WAKINGS
There were three persons in Leyden whose reflections when they awoke onthe morning after the sledge race are not without interest, at any rateto the student of their history. First there was Dirk van Goorl, whosework made an early riser of him--to say nothing of a splitting headachewhich on this morning called him into consciousness just as the clock inthe bell tower was chiming half-past four. Now there are few things moredepressing than to be awakened by a bad headache at half-past fourin the black frost of a winter dawn. Yet as Dirk lay and thought aconviction took hold of him that his depression was not due entirely tothe headache or to the cold.
One by one he recalled the events of yesterday. First he had been latefor this appointment with Lysbeth, which evidently vexed her. Then theCaptain Montalvo had swooped down and carried her away, as a hawk bearsoff a chicken under the very eyes of the hen-wife, while he--donkey thathe was--could find no words in which to protest. Next, thinking it hisduty to back the sledge wherein Lysbeth rode, although it was drivenby a Spaniard, he had lost ten florins on that event, which, being athrifty young man, did not at all please him. The rest of the fetehe had spent hunting for Lysbeth, who mysteriously vanished with theSpaniard, an unentertaining and even an anxious pastime. Then came thesupper, when once more the Count swooped down on Lysbeth, leaving himto escort his Cousin Clara, whom he considered an old fool and disliked,and who, having spoilt his new jacket by spilling wine over it, ended byabusing his taste in dress. Nor was that all--he had drunk a great dealmore strong wine than was wise, for to this his head certified. Lastlyhe had walked home arm in arm with his lady-snatching Spaniard, and byHeaven! yes, he had sworn eternal friendship with him on the doorstep.
Well, there was no doubt that the Count was an uncommonly goodfellow--for a Spaniard. As for that story of the foul he had explainedit quite satisfactorily, and he had taken his beating like a gentleman.Could anything be nicer or in better feeling than his allusions toCousin Pieter in his after-supper speech? Also, and this was a gravermatter, the man had shown that he was tolerant and kindly by the wayin which he dealt with the poor creature called the Mare, a woman whosehistory Dirk knew well; one whose sufferings had made of her a crazy andrash-tongued wanderer, who, so it was rumoured, could use a knife.
In fact, for the truth may as well be told at once, Dirk was a Lutheran,having been admitted to that community two years before. To be aLutheran in those days, that is in the Netherlands, meant, it needscarcely be explained, that you walked the world with a halter roundyour neck and a vision of the rack and the stake before your eyes;circumstances under which religion became a more earnest and seriousthing than most people find it in this century. Still even at that datethe dreadful penalties attaching to the crime did not prevent many ofthe burgher and lower classes from worshipping God in their own fashion.Indeed, if the truth had been known, of those who were present atLysbeth's supper on the previous night more than half, including Pietervan de Werff, were adherents of the New Faith.
To dismiss religious considerations, however, Dirk could have wishedthat this kindly natured Spaniard was not quite so good-looking or quiteso appreciative of the excellent points of the young Leyden ladies,and especially of Lysbeth's, with whose sterling character, he nowremembered, Montalvo had assured him he was much impressed. What hefeared was that this regard might be reciprocal. After all a Spanishhidalgo in command of the garrison was a distinguished person, and,alas! Lysbeth also was a Catholic. Dirk loved Lysbeth; he loved her withthat patient sincerity which was characteristic of his race and his owntemperament, but in addition to and above the reasons that have beengiven already it was this fact of the difference of religion whichhitherto had built a wall between them. Of course she was unaware ofanything of the sort. She did not know even that he belonged to the NewFaith, and without the permission of the elders of his sect, he wouldnot dare to tell her, for the lives of men and of their families couldnot be confided lightly to the hazard of a girl's discretion.
Herein lay the real reason why, although Dirk was so devoted to Lysbeth,and although he imagined that she was not indifferent to him, as yet noword had passed between them of love or marriage. How could he who wasa Lutheran ask a Catholic to become his wife without telling her thetruth? And if he told her the truth, and she consented to take the risk,how could he drag her into that dreadful net? Supposing even that shekept to her own faith, which of course she would be at liberty to do,although equally, of course, he was bound to try to convert her, theirchildren, if they had any, must be brought up in his beliefs. Then,sooner or later, might come the informer, that dreadful informer whoseshadow already lay heavy upon thousands of homes in the Netherlands, andafter the informer the officer, and after the officer the priest, andafter the priest the judge, and after the judge--the executioner and thestake.
In this case, what would happen to Lysbeth? She might prove herselfinnocent of the horrible crime of heresy, if by that time she wasinnocent, but what would life become to the loving young woman whosehusband and children, perhaps, had been haled off to the slaughterchambers of the Papal Inquisition? This was the true first cause whyDirk had remained silent, even when he was sorely tempted to speak; yes,although his instinct told him that his silence had been misinterpretedand set down to over-caution, or indifference, or to unnecessaryscruples.
The next to wake up that morning was Lysbeth, who, if she was nottroubled with headache resulting from indulgence--and in that daywomen of her class sometimes suffered from it--had pains of her own toovercome. When sifted and classified these pains resolved themselvesinto a sense of fiery indignation against Dirk van Goorl. Dirk had beenlate for his appointment, alleging some ridiculous excuse about thecooling of a bell, as though she cared whether the bell were hot orcold, with the result that she had been thrown into the company of thatdreadful Martha the Mare. After the Mare--aggravated by Black Meg--camethe Spaniard. Here again Dirk had shown contemptible indifference andinsufficiency, for he allowed her to be forced into the Wolf sledgeagainst her will. Nay, he had actually consented to the thing. Next,in a fateful sequence followed all the other incidents of that hideouscarnival; the race, the foul, if it was a foul; the dreadful nightmarevision called into her mind by the look upon Montalvo's face; the trialof the Mare, her own unpremeditated but indelible perjury; the lonelydrive with the man who compelled her to it; the exhibition of herselfbefore all the world as his willing companion; and the feast in which heappeared as her cavalier, and was accepted of the simple company almostas an angel entertained by chance.
What did he mean? Doubtless, for on that point she could scarcely bemistaken, he meant to make love to her, for had he not in practice saidas much? And now--this was the terrible thing--she was in his power,since if he chose to do so, without doubt he could prove that she hadsworn a false oath for her own purposes. Also that lie weighed upon hermind, although it had been spoken in a good cause; if it was good tosave a wretched fanatic from the fate which, were the truth known,without doubt her crime deserved.
Of course, the Spaniard was a bad man, if an attractive one, and he hadbehaved wickedly, if with grace and breeding; but who expected anythingelse from a Spaniard, who only acted after his kind and for his ownends? It was Dirk--Dirk--that was to blame, not so much--and here againcame the rub--for his awkwardness and mistakes of yesterday, as for hisgeneral conduct. Why had he not spoken to her before, and put her beyondthe reach of such accidents as these to which a woman of her positionand substance must necessarily be exposed? The saints knew that she hadgiven him opportunity enough. She had gone as far as a maiden might, andnot for all the Dirks on earth would she go one inch further. Whyhad she ever come to care for his foolish face? Why had she refusedSo-and-so, and So-and-so and So-and-so--all of them honourable men--withthe result that now no other bachelor ever came near her, comprehendingthat she was under bond to her cousin? In the past she had persuadedherself that it was because of something she felt but could not see, ofa hidden nobi
lity of character which after all was not very evidentupon the surface, that she loved Dirk van Goorl. But where was thissomething, this nobility? Surely a man who was a man ought to play hispart, and not leave her in this false position, especially asthere could be no question of means. She would not have come to himempty-handed, very far from it, indeed. Oh! were it not for the unluckyfact that she still happened to care about him--to her sorrow--never,never would she speak to him again.
The last of our three friends to awake on this particular morning,between nine and ten o'clock, indeed, when Dirk had been already twohours at his factory and Lysbeth was buying provisions in the marketplace, was that accomplished and excellent officer, Captain the CountJuan de Montalvo. For a few seconds after his dark eyes opened he staredat the ceiling collecting his thoughts. Then, sitting up in bed, heburst into a prolonged roar of laughter. Really the whole thing wastoo funny for any man of humour to contemplate without being movedto merriment. That gaby, Dirk van Goorl; the furiously indignant buthelpless Lysbeth; the solemn, fat-headed fools of Netherlanders at thesupper, and the fashion in which he had played his own tune on the wholepack of them as though they were the strings of a fiddle--oh! it wasdelicious.
As the reader by this time may have guessed, Montalvo was not thetypical Spaniard of romance, and, indeed, of history. He was not gloomyand stern; he was not even particularly vengeful or bloodthirsty. On thecontrary, he was a clever and utterly unprincipled man with a sense ofhumour and a gift of _bonhomie_ which made him popular in all places.Moreover, he was brave, a good soldier; in a certain sense sympathetic,and, strange to say, no bigot. Indeed, which seems to have been a rarething in those days, his religious views were so enlarged that hehad none at all. His conduct, therefore, if from time to time itwas affected by passing spasms of acute superstition, was totallyuninfluenced by any settled spiritual hopes or fears, a condition which,he found, gave him great advantages in life. In fact, had it suited hispurpose, Montalvo was prepared, at a moment's notice, to become Lutheranor Calvinist, or Mahomedan, or Mystic, or even Anabaptist; on theprinciple, he would explain, that it is easy for the artist to paint anypicture he likes upon a blank canvas.
And yet this curious pliancy of mind, this lack of conviction, thisabsolute want of moral sense, which ought to have given the Count suchgreat advantages in his conflict with the world, were, in reality, themain source of his weakness. Fortune had made a soldier of the man, andhe filled the part as he would have filled any part. But nature intendedhim for a play-actor, and from day to day he posed and mimed and mouthedthrough life in this character or in that, though never in hisown character, principally because he had none. Still, far down inMontalvo's being there was something solid and genuine, and thatsomething not good but bad. It was very rarely on view; the hand ofcircumstance must plunge deep to find it, but it dwelt there; thestrong, cruel Spanish spirit which would sacrifice anything to save,or even to advance, itself. It was this spirit that Lysbeth had seenlooking out of his eyes on the yesterday, which, when he knew that therace was lost, had prompted him to try to kill his adversary, althoughhe killed himself and her in the attempt. Nor did she see it then forthe last time, for twice more at least in her life she was destined tomeet and tremble at its power.
In short, although Montalvo was a man who really disliked cruelty, hecould upon occasion be cruel to the last degree; although he appreciatedfriends, and desired to have them, he could be the foulest of traitors.Although without a cause he would do no hurt to a living thing, yet ifthat cause were sufficient he would cheerfully consign a whole cityfulto death. No, not cheerfully, he would have regretted their end verymuch, and often afterwards might have thought of it with sympathyand even sorrow. This was where he differed from the majority of hiscountrymen in that age, who would have done the same thing, and morebrutally, from honest principle, and for the rest of their livesrejoiced at the memory of the deed.
Montalvo had his ruling passion; it was not war, it was not women; itwas money. But here again he did not care about the money for itself,since he was no miser, and being the most inveterate of gamblers neversaved a single stiver. He wanted it to spend and to stake upon the dice.Thus again, in variance to the taste of most of his countrymen, he caredlittle for the other sex; he did not even like their society, and as fortheir passion and the rest he thought it something of a bore. But he didcare intensely for their admiration, so much so that if no better gamewere at hand, he would take enormous trouble to fascinate even a servingmaid or a fish girl. Wherever he went it was his ambition to be reportedthe man the most admired of the fair in that city, and to attain thisend he offered himself upon the altar of numerous love affairs whichdid not amuse him in the least. Of course, the indulgence of this vanitymeant expense, since the fair require money and presents, and he whopursues them should be well dressed and horsed and able to do thingsin the very finest style. Also their relatives must be entertained, andwhen they were entertained impressed with the sense that they had thehonour to be guests of a grandee of Spain.
Now that of a grandee has never been a cheap profession; indeed, as manya pauper peer knows to-day, rank without resources is a terrific burden.Montalvo had the rank, for he was a well-born man, whose sole heritagewas an ancient tower built by some warlike ancestor in a positionadmirably suited to the purpose of the said ancestor, namely, thepillage of travellers through a neighbouring mountain pass. When,however, travellers ceased to use that pass, or for other reasonsrobbery became no longer productive, the revenues of the Montalvo familydeclined till at the present date they were practically nil. Thus itcame about that the status of the last representative of this ancientstock was that of a soldier of fortune of the common type, endowed,unfortunately for himself, with grand ideas, a gambler's fatal fire,expensive tastes, and more than the usual pride of race.
Although, perhaps, he had never defined them very clearly, even tohimself, Juan de Montalvo had two aims in life: first to indulge hisevery freak and fancy to the full, and next--but this was secondaryand somewhat nebulous--to re-establish the fortunes of his family. Inthemselves they were quite legitimate aims, and in those times, whenfishers of troubled waters generally caught something, and when men ofability and character might force their way to splendid positions, therewas no reason why they should not have led him to success. Yet sofar, at any rate, in spite of many opportunities, he had not succeededalthough he was now a man of more than thirty. The causes of hisfailures were various, but at the bottom of them lay his lack ofstability and genuineness.
A man who is always playing a part amuses every one but convincesnobody. Montalvo convinced nobody. When he discoursed on the mysteriesof religion with priests, even priests who in those days for themost part were stupid, felt that they assisted in a mere intellectualexercise. When his theme was war his audience guessed that his objectwas probably love. When love was his song an inconvenient instinct wasapt to assure the lady immediately concerned that it was love of selfand not of her. They were all more or less mistaken, but, as usual, thewomen went nearest to the mark. Montalvo's real aim was self, but hespelt it, Money. Money in large sums was what he wanted, and what inthis way or that he meant to win.
Now even in the sixteenth century fortunes did not lie to the hand ofevery adventurer. Military pay was small, and not easily recoverable;loot was hard to come by, and quickly spent. Even the ransom of a richprisoner or two soon disappeared in the payment of such debts of honouras could not be avoided. Of course there remained the possibility ofwealthy marriage, which in a country like the Netherlands, that wasfull of rich heiresses, was not difficult to a high-born, handsome, andagreeable man of the ruling Spanish caste. Indeed, after many chancesand changes the time had come at length when Montalvo must either marryor be ruined. For his station his debts, especially his gaming debts,were enormous, and creditors met him at every turn. Unfortunately forhim, also, some of these creditors were persons who had the ear ofpeople in authority. So at last it came about that an intimation reachedhim that this sc
andal must be abated, or he must go back to Spain, acountry which, as it happened, he did not in the least wish to visit.In short, the sorry hour of reckoning, that hour which overtakes allprocrastinators, had arrived, and marriage, wealthy marriage, was theonly way wherewith it could be defied. It was a sad alternative to a manwho for his own very excellent reasons did not wish to marry, but thishad to be faced.
Thus it came about that, as the only suitable _partie_ in Leyden,the Count Montalvo had sought out the well-favoured and well-endowedJufvrouw Lysbeth van Hout to be his companion in the great sledge race,and taken so much trouble to ensure to himself a friendly reception ather house.
So far, things went well, and, what was more, the opening of the chasehad proved distinctly entertaining. Also, the society of the place,after his appropriation of her at a public festival and their longmoonlight _tete-a-tete_, which by now must be common gossip's talk,would be quite prepared for any amount of attention which he might seefit to pay to Lysbeth. Indeed, why should he not pay attention to anunaffianced woman whose rank was lower if her means were greater thanhis own? Of course, he knew that her name had been coupled with that ofDirk van Goorl. He was perfectly aware also that these two young peoplewere attached to each other, for as they walked home together on theprevious night Dirk, possibly for motives of his own, had favoured himwith a semi-intoxicated confidence to that effect. But as they were notaffianced what did that matter? Indeed, had they been affianced, whatwould it matter? Still, Dirk van Goorl was an obstacle, and, therefore,although he seemed to be a good fellow, and he was sorry for him,Dirk van Goorl must be got out of the way, since he was convinced thatLysbeth was one of those stubborn-natured creatures who would probablydecline to marry himself until this young Leyden lout had vanished. Andyet he did not wish to be mixed up with duels, if for no other reasonbecause in a duel the unexpected may always happen, and that would bea poor end. Certainly also he did not wish to be mixed up with murder;first, because he intensely disliked the idea of killing anybody, unlesshe was driven to it; and secondly, because murder has a nasty way ofcoming out. One could never be quite sure in what light the despatchingof a young Netherlander of respectable family and fortune would belooked at by those in authority.
Also, there was another thing to be considered. If this young man diedit was impossible to know exactly how Lysbeth would take his death. Thusshe might elect to refuse to marry or decide to mourn him for four orfive years, which for all practical purposes would be just as bad. Andyet while Dirk lived how could he possibly persuade her to transfer heraffections to himself? It seemed, therefore, that Dirk ought to decease.For quite a quarter of an hour Montalvo thought the matter over, andthen, just as he had given it up and determined to leave thingsto chance, for a while at least, inspiration came, a splendid, aheaven-sent inspiration.
Dirk must not die, Dirk must live, but his continued existence must bethe price of the hand of Lysbeth van Hout. If she was half as fond ofthe man as he believed, it was probable that she would be delighted tomarry anybody else in order to save his precious neck, for that was justthe kind of sentimental idiotcy of which nine women out of ten reallyenjoyed the indulgence. Moreover, this scheme had other merits; it didevery one a good turn. Dirk would be saved from extinction for which heshould be grateful: Lysbeth, besides earning the honour of an alliance,perhaps only temporary, with himself, would be able to go through lifewrapped in a heavenly glow of virtue arising from the impression thatshe had really done something very fine and tragic, while he, Montalvo,under Providence, the humble purveyor of these blessings, would alsobenefit to some small extent.
The difficulty was: How could the situation be created? How couldthe interesting Dirk be brought to a pass that would give the lady anopportunity of exercising her finer feelings on his behalf? If only hewere a heretic now! Well, by the Pope why shouldn't he be a heretic?If ever a fellow had the heretical cut this fellow had; flat-faced,sanctimonious-looking, and with a fancy for dark-coloured stockings--hehad observed that all heretics, male and female, wore dark-colouredstockings, perhaps by way of mortifying the flesh. He could think ofonly one thing against it, the young man had drunk too much last night.But there were certain breeds of heretics who did not mind drinking toomuch. Also the best could slip sometimes, for, as he had learned fromthe old Castilian priest who taught him Latin, _humanum est_, etc.
This, then, was the summary of his reflections. (1) That to save thesituation, within three months or so he must be united in holy matrimonywith Lysbeth van Hout. (2) That if it proved impossible to remove theyoung man, Dirk van Goorl, from his path by overmatching him in thelady's affections, or by playing on her jealousy (Query: Could a womanbe egged into becoming jealous of that flounder of a fellow and intomarrying some one else out of pique?), stronger measures must beadopted. (3) That such stronger measures should consist of inducing thelady to save her lover from death by uniting herself in marriage withone who for her sake would do violence to his conscience and manipulatethe business. (4) That this plan would be best put into execution byproving the lover to be a heretic, but if unhappily this could not beproved because he was not, still he must figure in that capacity forthis occasion only. (5) That meanwhile it would be well to cultivate thesociety of Mynheer van Goorl as much as possible, first because he was aperson with whom, under the circumstances, he, Montalvo, would naturallywish to become intimate, and secondly, because he was quite certain tobe an individual with cash to lend.
Now, these researches after heretics invariably cost money, for theyinvolved the services of spies. Obviously, therefore, friend Dirk, theDutch Flounder, was a man to provide the butter in which he was going tobe fried. Why, if any Hollander had a spark of humour he would see thejoke of it himself--and Montalvo ended his reflections as he had begunthem, with a merry peal of laughter, after which he rose and ate a mostexcellent breakfast.
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