CHAPTER XVII
BETROTHED
At nightfall on the morrow Adrian returned as appointed, and wasadmitted into the same room, where he found Black Meg, who greeted himopenly by name and handed to him a tiny phial containing a fluid clearas water. This, however, was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that itwas water and nothing else.
"Will it really work upon her heart?" asked Adrian, eyeing the stuff.
"Ay," answered the hag, "that's a wondrous medicine, and those who drinkit go crazed with love for the giver. It is compounded according to theMaster's own receipt, from very costly tasteless herbs that grow only inthe deserts of Arabia."
Adrian understood, and fumbled in his pocket. Meg stretched out her handto receive the honorarium. It was a long, skinny hand, with long, skinnyfingers, but there was this peculiarity about it, that one of thesefingers chanced to be missing. She saw his eyes fixed upon the gap, andrushed into an explanation.
"I have met with an accident," Meg explained. "In cutting up a pig thechopper caught this finger and severed it."
"Did you wear a ring on it?" asked Adrian.
"Yes," she replied, with sombre fury.
"How very strange!" ejaculated Adrian.
"Why?"
"Because I have seen a finger, a woman's long finger with a gold ringon it, that might have come off your hand. I suppose the pork-butcherpicked it up for a keepsake."
"May be, Heer Adrian, but where is it now?"
"Oh! it is, or was, in a bottle of spirits tied by a thread to thecork."
Meg's evil face contorted itself. "Get me that bottle," she saidhoarsely. "Look you, Heer Adrian, I am doing much for you, do this forme."
"What do you want it for?"
"To give it Christian burial," she replied sourly. "It is not fitting orlucky that a person's finger should stand about in a bottle like a caulor a lizard. Get it, I say get it--I ask no question where--or, youngman, you will have little help in your love affairs from me."
"Do you wish the dagger hilt also?" he asked mischievously.
She looked at him out of the corners of her black eyes. This Adrian knewtoo much.
"I want the finger and the ring on it which I lost in chopping up thepig."
"Perhaps, mother, you would like the pig, too. Are you not making amistake? Weren't you trying to cut his throat, and didn't he bite offthe finger?"
"If I want the pig, I'll search his stye. You bring that bottle, or----"
She did not finish her sentence, for the door opened, and through itcame the sage.
"Quarrelling," he said in a tone of reproof. "What about? Let me guess,"and he passed his hand over his shadowed brow. "Ah! I see, there is afinger in it, a finger of fate? No, not that," and, moved by a freshinspiration, he grasped Meg's hand, and added, "Now I have it. Bring itback, friend Adrian, bring it back; a dead finger is most unlucky to allsave its owner. As a favour to me."
"Very well," said Adrian.
"My gifts grow," mused the master. "I have a vision of this honest handand of a great sword--but, there, it is not worth while, too small amatter. Leave us, mother. It shall be returned, my word on it. Yes, goldring and all. And now, young friend, let us talk. You have the philtre?Well, I can promise you that it is a good one, it would almost bringGalatea from her marble. Pygmalion must have known that secret. But tellme something of your life, your daily thoughts and daily deeds, for whenI give my friendship I love to live in the life of my friends."
Thus encouraged, Adrian told him a great deal, so much, indeed, that theSenor Ramiro, nodding in the shadow of his hood, began to wonder whetherthe spy behind the cupboard door, expert as he was, could possibly makehis pen keep pace with these outpourings. Oh! it was a dreary task,but he kept to it, and by putting in a sentence here and there artfullyturned the conversation to matters of faith.
"No need to fence with me," he said presently. "I know how you have beenbrought up, how through no fault of your own you have wandered outof the warm bosom of the true Church to sit at the clay feet of theconventicle. You doubt it? Well, let me look again, let me look. Yes,only last week you were seated in a whitewashed room overhanging themarket-place. I see it all--an ugly little man with a harsh voice ispreaching, preaching what I think blasphemy. Baskets--baskets? What havebaskets to do with him?"
"I believe he used to make them," interrupted Adrian, taking the bait.
"That may be it, or perhaps he will be buried in one; at any rate heis strangely mixed up with baskets. Well, there are others with you, amiddle-aged, heavy-faced man, is he not Dirk van Goorl, your stepfather?And--wait--a young fellow with rather a pleasant face, also a relation.I see his name, but I can't spell it. F--F--o--i, faith in the Frenchtongue, odd name for a heretic."
"F-o-y--Foy," interrupted Adrian again.
"Indeed! Strange that I should have mistaken the last letter, but in thespirit sight and hearing these things chance: then there is a great manwith a red beard."
"No, Master, you're wrong," said Adrian with emphasis; "Martin was notthere; he stopped behind to watch the house."
"Are you sure?" asked the seer doubtfully. "I look and I seem to seehim," and he stared blankly at the wall.
"So you might see him often enough, but not at last week's meeting."
It is needless to follow the conversation further. The seer, by aid of aball of crystal that he produced from the folds of his cloak, describedhis spirit visions, and the pupil corrected them from his intimateknowledge of the facts, until the Senor Ramiro and his confederates inthe cupboard had enough evidence, as evidence was understood in thosedays, to burn Dirk, Foy, and Martin three times over, and, if it shouldsuit him, Adrian also. Then for that night they parted.
Next evening Adrian was back again with the finger in the bottle,which Meg grabbed as a pike snatches at a frog, and further fascinatingconversation ensued. Indeed, Adrian found this well of mystic loretempered with shrewd advice upon love affairs and other worldly matters,and with flattery of his own person and gifts, singularly attractive.
Several times did he return thus, for as it chanced Elsa had been unwelland kept her room, so that he discovered no opportunity of administeringthe magic philtre that was to cause her heart to burn with love for him.
At length, when even the patient Ramiro was almost worn out by the younggentleman's lengthy visits, the luck changed. Elsa appeared one dayat dinner, and with great adroitness Adrian, quite unseen of anyone,contrived to empty the phial into her goblet of water, which, as herejoiced to see, she drank to the last drop.
But no opportunity such as he sought ensued, for Elsa, overcome,doubtless, by an unwonted rush of emotion, retired to battle it in herown chamber. Since it was impossible to follow and propose to her there,Adrian, possessing his soul in such patience as he could command, satin the sitting-room to await her return, for he knew that it was not herhabit to go out until five o'clock. As it happened, however, Elsahad other arrangements for the afternoon, since she had promised toaccompany Lysbeth upon several visits to the wives of neighbours, andthen to meet her cousin Foy at the factory and walk with him in themeadows beyond the town.
So while Adrian, lost in dreams, waited in the sitting-room Elsa andLysbeth left the house by the side door.
They had paid three of their visits when their path chanced to lead thempast the old town prison which was called the Gevangenhuis. This placeformed one of the gateways of the city, for it was built in the wallsand opened on to the moat, water surrounding it on all sides. In frontof its massive door, that was guarded by two soldiers, a small crowdhad gathered on the drawbridge and in the street beyond, apparentlyin expectation of somebody or something. Lysbeth looked at thethree-storied frowning building and shuddered, for it was here thatheretics were put upon their trial, and here, too, many of them weredone to death after the dreadful fashion of the day.
"Hasten," she said to Elsa, as she pushed through the crowd, "fordoubtless some horror passes here."
"Have no fear," answered an elde
rly and good-natured woman who overheardher, "we are only waiting to hear the new governor of the prison readhis deed of appointment."
As she spoke the doors were thrown open and a man--he was a well-knownexecutioner named Baptiste--came out carrying a sword in one hand and abunch of keys on a salver in the other. After him followed the governorgallantly dressed and escorted by a company of soldiers and theofficials of the prison. Drawing a scroll from beneath his cloak hebegan to read it rapidly and in an almost inaudible voice.
It was his commission as governor of the prison signed by Alvahimself, and set out in full his powers, which were considerable, hisresponsibilities which were small, and other matters, excepting onlythe sum of money that he had paid for the office, that, given certainconditions, was, as a matter of fact, sold to the highest bidder. Asmay be guessed, this post of governor of a gaol in one of the largeNetherland cities was lucrative enough to those who did not object tosuch a fashion of growing rich. So lucrative was it, indeed, that thesalary supposed to attach to the office was never paid; at least itsoccupant was expected to help himself to it out of heretical pockets.
As he finished reading through the paper the new governor looked up,to see, perhaps, what impression he had produced upon his audience. NowElsa saw his face for the first time and gripped Lysbeth's arm.
"It is Ramiro," she whispered, "Ramiro the spy, the man who dogged myfather at The Hague."
As well might she have spoken to a statue. Indeed, of a sudden Lysbethseemed to be smitten into stone, for there she stood staring with ablanched and meaningless face at the face of the man opposite to her.Well might she stare, for she also knew him. Across the gulf of years,one-eyed, bearded, withered, scarred as he was by suffering, passionand evil thoughts, she knew him, for there before her stood one whom shedeemed dead, the wretch whom she had believed to be her husband, Juan deMontalvo. Some magnetism drew his gaze to her; out of all the facesof that crowd it was hers that leapt to his eye. He trembled and grewwhite; he turned away, and swiftly was gone back into the hell of theGevangenhuis. Like a demon he had come out of it to survey the humanworld beyond, and search for victims there; like a demon he went backinto his own place. So at least it seemed to Lysbeth.
"Come, come," she muttered and, drawing the girl with her, passed out ofthe crowd.
Elsa began to talk in a strained voice that from time to time broke intoa sob.
"That is the man," she said. "He hounded down my father; it was hiswealth he wanted, but my father swore that he would die before he shouldwin it, and he is dead--dead in the Inquisition, and that man is hismurderer."
Lysbeth made no answer, never a word she uttered, till presently theyhalted at a mean and humble door. Then she spoke for the first time incold and constrained accents.
"I am going in here to visit the Vrouw Jansen; you have heard of her,the wife of him whom they burned. She sent to me to say that she issick, I know not of what, but there is smallpox about; I have heard offour cases of it in the city, so, cousin, it is wisest that you shouldnot enter here. Give me the basket with the food and wine. Look, yonderis the factory, quite close at hand, and there you will find Foy. Oh!never mind Ramiro. What is done is done. Go and walk with Foy, and for awhile forget--Ramiro."
At the door of the factory Elsa found Foy awaiting her, and they walkedtogether through one of the gates of the city into the pleasant meadowsthat lay beyond. At first they did not speak much, for each of them wasoccupied with thoughts which pressed their tongues to silence. When theywere clear of the town, however, Elsa could contain herself no more;indeed, the anguish awakened in her mind by the sight of Ramiro workingupon nerves already overstrung had made her half-hysterical. She beganto speak; the words broke from her like water from a dam which it hasbreached. She told Foy that she had seen the man, and more--much more.All the misery which she had suffered, all the love for the father whowas lost to her.
At last Elsa ceased outworn, and, standing still there upon the riverbank she wrung her hands and wept. Till now Foy had said nothing, forhis good spirits and cheerful readiness seemed to have forsaken him.Even now he said nothing. All he did was to put his arms about thissweet maid's waist, and, drawing her to him, to kiss her upon brow andeyes and lips. She did not resist; it never seemed to occur to her toshow resentment; indeed, she let her head sink upon his shoulder likethe head of a little child, and there sobbed herself to silence. At lastshe lifted her face and asked very simply:
"What do you want with me, Foy van Goorl?"
"What?" he repeated; "why I want to be your husband."
"Is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?" she asked again,but almost as though she were speaking to herself.
"I don't know that it is," he replied, "but it seems the only thing todo, and in such days two are better than one."
She drew away and looked at him, shaking her head sadly. "My father,"she began----
"Yes," he interrupted brightening, "thank you for mentioning him, thatreminds me. He wished this, so I hope now that he is gone you will takethe same view."
"It is rather late to talk about that, isn't it, Foy?" she stammered,looking at his shoulder and smoothing her ruffled hair with her smallwhite hand. "But what do you mean?"
So word for word, as nearly as he could remember it, he told her allthat Hendrik Brant had said to him in the cellar at The Hague beforethey had entered upon the desperate adventure of their flight to theHaarlemer Meer. "He wished it, you see," he ended.
"My thought was always his thought, and--Foy--I wish it also."
"Priceless things are not lightly won," said he, quoting Brant's wordsas though by some afterthought.
"There he must have been talking of the treasure, Foy," she answered,her face lightening to a smile.
"Ay, of the treasure, sweet, the treasure of your dear heart."
"A poor thing, Foy, but I think that--it rings true."
"It had need, Elsa, yet the best of coin may crack with rough usage."
"Mine will wear till death, Foy."
"I ask no more, Elsa. When I am dead, spend it elsewhere; I shall findit again above where there is no marrying or giving in marriage."
"There would be but small change left to spend, Foy, so look to your owngold and--see that you do not alter its image and superscription, formetal will melt in the furnace, and each queen has her stamp."
"Enough," he broke in impatiently. "Why do you talk of such things, andin these riddles which puzzle me?"
"Because, because, we are not married yet, and--the words are notmine--precious things are dearly won. Perfect love and perfect peacecannot be bought with a few sweet words and kisses; they must be earnedin trial and tribulation."
"Of which I have no doubt we shall find plenty," Foy replied cheerfully."Meanwhile, the kisses make a good road to travel on."
After this Elsa did not argue any more.
At length they turned and walked homeward through the quiet eveningtwilight, hand clasped in hand, and were happy in their way. It was nota very demonstrative way, for the Dutch have never been excitable, orat least they do not show their excitement. Moreover, the conditionsof this betrothal were peculiar; it was as though their hands had beenjoined from a deathbed, the deathbed of Hendrik Brant, the martyr ofThe Hague, whose new-shed blood cried out to Heaven for vengeance. Thissense pressing on both of them did not tend towards rapturous outburstsof youthful passion, and even if they could have shaken it off andlet their young blood have rein, there remained another sense--that ofdangers ahead of them.
"Two are better than one," Foy had said, and for her own reasons shehad not wished to argue the point, still Elsa felt that to it there wasanother side. If two could comfort each other, could help each other,could love each other, could they not also suffer for each other?In short, by doubling their lives, did they not also double theiranxieties, or if children should come, treble and quadruple them? Thisis true of all marriage, but how much more was it true in such days andin such a case as that of Foy and Elsa
, both of them heretics, both ofthem rich, and, therefore, both liable at a moment's notice to be haledto the torment and the stake? Knowing these things, and having but justseen the hated face of Ramiro, it is not wonderful that although sherejoiced as any woman must that the man to whom her soul turned haddeclared himself her lover, Elsa could only drink of this joyful cupwith a chastened and a fearful spirit. Nor is it wonderful that even inthe hour of his triumph Foy's buoyant and hopeful nature was chilled bythe shadow of her fears and the forebodings of his own heart.