Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (red white royal blue TXT) 📗

to say something about a written acknowledgment. As, however, this did not seem to occur to him, and the matter was not one of ordinary affairs, he led the way back to the table, where the other two were now showing their skill in card tricks.

A few minutes later the two Spaniards took their departure, leaving Dirk and his cousin Brant alone.

“A very successful evening,” said Brant, “and, cousin, you won a great deal.”

“Yes,” answered Dirk, “but all the same I am a poorer man than I was yesterday.”

Brant laughed. “Did he borrow of you?” he asked. “Well, I thought he would, and what’s more, don’t you count on that money. Montalvo is a good sort of fellow in his own fashion, but he is an extravagant man and a desperate gambler, with a queer history, I fancy—at least, nobody knows much about him, not even his brother officers. If you ask them they shrug their shoulders and say that Spain is a big kettle full of all sorts of fish. One thing I do know, however, that he is over head and ears in debt; indeed, there was trouble about it down at The Hague. So, cousin, don’t you play with him more than you can help, and don’t reckon on that thousand florins to pay your bills with. It is a mystery to me how the man gets on, but I am told that a foolish old vrouw in Amsterdam lent him a lot till she discovered—but there, I don’t talk scandal. And now,” he added, changing his voice, “is this place private?”

“Let’s see,” said Dirk, “they have cleared the things away, and the old housekeeper has tidied up my bedroom. Yes, I think so. Nobody ever comes up here after ten o’clock. What is it?”

Brant touched his arm, and, understanding the truth, Dirk led the way into the window-place. There, standing with his back to the room, and his hands crossed in a peculiar fashion, he uttered the word, “Jesus,” and paused. Brant also crossed his hands and answered, or, rather, continued, “wept.” It was the password of those of the New Religion.

“You are one of us, cousin?” said Dirk.

“I and all my house, my father, my mother, my sister, and the maiden whom I am to marry. They told me at The Hague that I must seek of you or the young Heer Pieter van de Werff, knowledge of those things which we of the Faith need to know; who are to be trusted, and who are not to be trusted; where prayer is held, and where we may partake of the pure Sacrament of God the Son.”

Dirk took his cousin’s hand and pressed it. The pressure was returned, and thenceforward brother could not have trusted brother more completely, for now between them was the bond of a common and burning faith.

Such bonds the reader may say, tie ninety out of every hundred people to each other in the present year of grace, but it is not to be observed that a like mutual confidence results. No, because the circumstances have changed. Thanks very largely to Dirk van Goorl and his fellows of that day, especially to one William of Orange, it is no longer necessary for devout and God-fearing people to creep into holes and corners, like felons hiding from the law, that they may worship the Almighty after some fashion as pure as it is simple, knowing the while that if they are found so doing their lot and the lot of their wives and children will be the torment and the stake. Now the thumbscrew and the rack as instruments for the discomfiture of heretics are relegated to the dusty cases of museums. But some short generations since all this was different, for then a man who dared to disagree with certain doctrines was treated with far less mercy than is shown to a dog on the vivisector’s table.

Little wonder, therefore, that those who lay under such a ban, those who were continually walking in the cold shadow of this dreadful doom, clung to each other, loved each other, and comforted each other to the last, passing often enough hand-in-hand through the fiery gates to that country in which there is no more pain. To be a member of the New Religion in the Netherlands under the awful rule of Charles the Emperor and Philip the King was to be one of a vast family. It was not “sir” or “mistress” or “madame,” it was “my father” and “my mother,” or “my sister” and “my brother;” yes, and between people who were of very different status and almost strangers in the flesh; strangers in the flesh but brethren in spirit.

It will be understood that in these circumstances Dirk and Brant, already liking each other, and being already connected by blood, were not slow in coming to a complete understanding and fellowship.

There they sat in the window-place telling each other of their families, their hopes and fears, and even of their lady-loves. In this, as in every other respect, Hendrik Brant’s story was one of simple prosperity. He was betrothed to a lady of The Hague, the only daughter of a wealthy wine-merchant, who, according to his account, seemed to be as beautiful as she was good and rich, and they were to be married in the spring. But when Dirk told him of his affair, he shook his wise young head.

“You say that both she and her aunt are Catholics?” he asked.

“Yes, cousin, this is the trouble. I think that she is fond of me, or, at any rate, she was until a few days since,” he added ruefully, “but how can I, being a ‘heretic,’ ask her to plight her troth to me unless I tell her? And that, you know, is against the rule; indeed, I scarcely dare to do so.”

“Had you not best consult with some godly elder who by prayer and words may move your lady’s heart till the light shines on her?” asked Brant.

“Cousin, it has been done, but always there is the other in the way, that red-nosed Aunt Clara, who is a mad idolator; also there is the serving-woman, Greta, whom I take for little better than a spy. Therefore, between the two of them I see little chance that Lysbeth will ever hear the truth this side of marriage. And yet how dare I marry her? Is it right that I should marry her and therefore, perhaps, bring her too to some dreadful fate such as may wait for you or me? Moreover, now since this man Montalvo has crossed my path, all things seem to have gone wrong between me and Lysbeth; indeed but yesterday her door was shut on me.”

“Women have their fancies,” answered Brant, slowly; “perhaps he has taken hers; she would not be the first who walked that plank. Or, perhaps, she is vexed with you for not speaking out ere this; for, man, not knowing what you are, how can she read your mind?”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” said Dirk, “but I know not what to do,” and in his perplexity he struck his forehead with his hand.

“Then, brother, in that case what hinders that we should ask Him Who can tell you?” said Brant, calmly.

Dirk understood what he meant at once. “It is a wise thought, and a good one, cousin. I have the Holy Book; first let us pray, and then we can seek wisdom there.”

“You are rich, indeed,” answered Brant; “sometime you must tell me how and where you came by it.”

“Here in Leyden, if one can afford to pay for them, such goods are not hard to get,” said Dirk; “what is hard is to keep them safely, for to be found with a Bible in your pocket is to carry your own death-warrant.”

Brant nodded. “Is it safe to show it here?” he asked.

“As safe as anywhere, cousin; the window is shuttered, the door is, or will be, locked, but who can say that he is safe this side of the stake in a land where the rats and mice carry news and the wind bears witness? Come, I will show you where I keep it,” and going to the mantelpiece he took down a candle-stick, a quaint brass, ornamented on its massive oblong base with two copper snails, and lit the candle. “Do you like the piece?” he asked; “it is my own design, which I cast and filed out in my spare hours,” and he gazed at the holder with the affection of an artist. Then without waiting for an answer, he led the way to the door of his sitting-room and paused.

“What is it?” asked Brant.

“I thought I heard a sound, that is all, but doubtless the old vrouw moves upon the stairs. Turn the key, cousin, so, now come on.”

They entered the sleeping chamber, and having glanced round and made sure that it was empty, and the window shut, Dirk went to the head of the bed, which was formed of oak-panels, the centre one carved with a magnificent coat-of-arms, fellow to that in the fireplace of the sitting-room. At this panel Dirk began to work, till presently it slid aside, revealing a hollow, out of which he took a book bound in boards covered with leather. Then, having closed the panel, the two young men returned to the sitting-room, and placed the volume upon the oak table beneath the chandelier.

“First let us pray,” said Brant.

It seems curious, does it not, that two young men as a finale to a dinner party, and a gambling match at which the stakes had not been low; young men who like others had their weaknesses, for one of them, at any rate, could drink too much wine at times, and both being human doubtless had further sins to bear, should suggest kneeling side by side to offer prayers to their Maker before they studied the Scriptures? But then in those strange days prayer, now so common (and so neglected) an exercise, was an actual luxury. To these poor hunted men and women it was a joy to be able to kneel and offer thanks and petitions to God, believing themselves to be safe from the sword of those who worshipped otherwise. Thus it came about that, religion being forbidden, was to them a very real and earnest thing, a thing to be indulged in at every opportunity with solemn and grateful hearts. So there, beneath the light of the guttering candles, they knelt side by side while Brant, speaking for both of them, offered up a prayer—a sight touching enough and in its way beautiful.

The words of his petition do not matter. He prayed for their Church; he prayed for their country that it might be made strong and free; he even prayed for the Emperor, the carnal, hare-lipped, guzzling, able Hapsburg self-seeker. Then he prayed for themselves and all who were dear to them, and lastly, that light might be vouchsafed to Dirk in his present difficulty. No, not quite lastly, for he ended with a petition that their enemies might be forgiven, yes, even those who tortured them and burnt them at the stake, since they knew not what they did. It may be wondered whether any human aspirations could have been more thoroughly steeped in the true spirit of Christianity.

When at length he had finished they rose from their knees.

“Shall I open the Book at a hazard,” asked Dirk, “and read what my eye falls on?”

“No,” answered Brant, “for it savours of superstition; thus did the ancients with the writings of the poet Virgilius, and it is not fitting that we who hold the light should follow the example of those blind heathen. What work of the Book, brother, are you studying now?”

“The first letter of Paul to the Corinthians, which I have never read before,” he answered.

“Then begin where you left off, brother, and read your chapter. Perhaps we may find instruction in it; if not, no answer is vouchsafed to us to-night.”

So from the black-letter volume before him Dirk began to read the seventh chapter, in which, as it chances, the great Apostle deals with the marriage state. On he read, in a quiet even voice, till he came to the twelfth and four following verses, of which the last three run: “For the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the husband: else were your children unclean; but now they are holy. But if the unbelieving depart, let him depart. A brother or a sister is not under bondage in such cases; but God has called us to peace. For what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband? or how knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife?” Dirk’s voice