Part 9 (1/2)

”Tell them I can't come,” he said, drawing the key from his pocket.

”Very good, Heer Adrian, why not?”

”Because I am writing.”

”Writing what?” queried Martin.

”A sonnet.”

”What's a sonnet?” asked Martin blankly.

”Ill-educated clown,” murmured Adrian, then-with a sudden inspiration, ”I'll show you what a sonnet is; I will read it to you. Come in and shut the door.” Martin obeyed, and was duly rewarded with the sonnet, of which he understood nothing at all except the name of the lady, Isabella d'Ovanda. But Martin was not without the guile of the serpent.

”Beautiful,” he said, ”beautiful! Read it again, master.”

Adrian did so with much delight, remembering the tale of how the music of Orpheus had charmed the very beasts.

”Ah!” said Martin, ”that's a love-letter, isn't it, to that splendid, black-eyed marchioness, whom I saw looking at you?”

”Well, not exactly,” said Adrian, highly pleased, although to tell the truth he could not recollect upon what occasion the fair Isabella had favoured him with her kind glances. ”Yet I suppose that you might call it so, an idealised love-letter, a letter in which ardent and distant yet tender admiration is wrapt with the veil of verse.”

”Quite so. Well, Master Adrian, just you send it to her.”

”You don't think that she might be offended?” queried Adrian doubtfully.

”Offended!” said Martin, ”if she is I know nothing of women” (as a matter of fact he didn't.) ”No, she will be very pleased; she'll take it away and read it by herself, and sleep with it under her pillow until she knows it by heart, and then I daresay she will ask you to come and see her. Well, I must be off, but thank you for reading me the beautiful poetry letter, Heer Adrian.”

”Really,” reflected Adrian, as the door closed behind him, ”this is another instance of the deceitfulness of appearances. I always thought Martin a great, brutal fool, yet in his breast, uncultured as it is, the sacred spark still smoulders.” And then and there he made up his mind that he would read Martin a further selection of poems upon the first opportunity.

If only Adrian could have been a witness to the scene which at that very moment was in progress at the works! Martin having delivered the key of the box, sought out Foy, and proceeded to tell him the story. More, perfidious one, he handed over a rough draft of the sonnet which he had surrept.i.tiously garnered from the floor, to Foy, who, clad in a leather ap.r.o.n, and seated on the edge of a casting, read it eagerly.

”I told him to send it,” went on Martin, ”and, by St. Peter, I think he will, and then if he doesn't have old Don Diaz after him with a pistol in one hand and a stiletto in the other, my name isn't Martin Roos.”

”Of course, of course,” gasped Foy, kicking his legs into the air with delight, ”why, they call the old fellow 'Singe jaloux.' Oh! it's capital, and I only hope that he opens the lady's letters.”

Thus did Foy, the commonplace and practical, make a mock of the poetic efforts of the high-souled and sentimental Adrian.

Meanwhile Adrian, feeling that he required air after his literary labours, fetched his peregrine from its perch-for he was fond of hawking-and, setting it on his wrist, started out to find a quarry on the marshes near the town.

Before he was halfway down the street he had forgotten all about the sonnet and the lovely Isabella. His was a curious temperament, and this sentimentality, born of vainness and idle hours, by no means expressed it all. That he was what we should nowadays call a prig we know, and also that he possessed his father's, Montalvo's, readiness of speech without his father's sense of humour. In him, as Martin had hinted, the strain of the sire predominated, for in all essentials Adrian was as Spanish in mind as in appearance.

For instance, the sudden and violent pa.s.sions into which he was apt to fall if thwarted or overlooked were purely Spanish; there seemed to be nothing of the patient, phlegmatic Netherlander about this side of him. Indeed it was this temper of his perhaps more than any other desire or tendency that made him so dangerous, for, whereas the impulses of his heart were often good enough, they were always liable to be perverted by some access of suddenly provoked rage.

From his birth up Adrian had mixed little with Spaniards, and every influence about him, especially that of his mother, the being whom he most loved on earth, had been anti-Spanish, yet were he an hidalgo fresh from the Court at the Escurial, he could scarcely have been more Castilian. Thus he had been brought up in what might be called a Republican atmosphere, yet he was without sympathy for the love of liberty which animated the people of Holland. The st.u.r.dy independence of the Netherlanders, their perpetual criticism of kings and established rules, their vulgar and unheard-of a.s.sumption that the good things of the world were free to all honest and hard-working citizens, and not merely the birthright of blue blood, did not appeal to Adrian. Also from childhood he had been a member of the dissenting Church, one of the New Religion. Yet, at heart, he rejected this faith with its humble professors and pastors, its simple, and sometimes squalid rites; its long and earnest prayers offered to the Almighty in the damp of a cellar or the reek of a cowhouse.

Like thousands of his Spanish fellow-countrymen, he was const.i.tutionally unable to appreciate the fact that true religion and true faith are the natural fruits of penitence and effort, and that individual repentance and striving are the only sacrifices required of man.

For safety's sake, like most politic Netherlanders, Adrian was called upon from time to time to attend wors.h.i.+p in the Catholic churches. He did not find the obligation irksome. In fact, the forms and rites of that stately ceremonial, the moving picture of the Ma.s.s in those dim aisles, the pealing of the music and the sweet voices of hidden choristers-all these things unsealed a fountain in his bosom and at whiles moved him well nigh to tears. The system appealed to him also, and he could understand that in it were joy and comfort. For here was to be found forgiveness of sins, not far off in the heavens, but at hand upon the earth; forgiveness to all who bent the head and paid the fee. Here, ready made by that prince of armourers, a Church that claimed to be directly inspired, was a harness of proof which, after the death he dreaded (for he was full of spiritual fears and superst.i.tions), would suffice to turn the shafts of Satan from his poor s.h.i.+vering soul, however steeped in crime. Was not this a more serviceable and practical faith than that of these loud-voiced, rude-handed Lutherans among whom he lived; men who elected to cast aside this armour and trust instead to a buckler forged by their faith and prayers-yes, and to give up their evil ways and subdue their own desires that they might forge it better?

Such were the thoughts of Adrian's secret heart, but as yet he had never acted on them, since, however much he might wish to do so, he had not found the courage to break away from the influence of his surroundings. His surroundings-ah! how he hated them! How he hated them! For very shame's sake, indeed, he could not live in complete idleness among folk who were always busy, therefore he acted as accountant in his stepfather's business, keeping the books of the foundry in a scanty and inefficient fas.h.i.+on, or writing letters to distant customers, for he was a skilled clerk, to order the raw materials necessary to the craft. But of this occupation he was weary, for he had the true Spanish dislike and contempt of trade. In his heart he held that war was the only occupation worthy of a man, successful war, of course, against foes worth plundering, such as Cortes and Pizarro had waged upon the poor Indians of New Spain.

Adrian had read a chronicle of the adventures of these heroes, and bitterly regretted that he had come into the world too late to share them. The tale of heathen foemen slaughtered by thousands, and of the incalculable golden treasures divided among their conquerors, fired his imagination-especially the treasures. At times he would see them in his sleep, baskets full of gems, heaps of barbaric gold and guerdon of fair women slaves, all given by heaven to the true soldier whom it had charged with the sacred work of Christianising unbelievers by means of ma.s.sacre and the rack.

Oh! how deeply did he desire such wealth and the power which it would bring with it; he who was dependent upon others that looked down upon him as a lazy dreamer, who had never a guilder to spare in his pouch, who had nothing indeed but more debts than he cared to remember. But it never occurred to him to set to work and grow rich like his neighbours by honest toil and commerce. No, that was the task of slaves, like these low Hollander fellows among whom his lot was cast.

Such were the main characteristics of Adrian, surnamed van Goorl; Adrian the superst.i.tious but unspiritual dreamer, the vain Sybarite, the dull poet, the chopper of false logic, the weak and pa.s.sionate self-seeker, whose best and deepest cravings, such as his love for his mother and another love that shall be told of, were really little more than a reflection of his own pride and l.u.s.ts, or at least could be subordinated to their fulfilment. Not that he was altogether bad; somewhere in him there was a better part. Thus: he was capable of good purposes and of bitter remorse; under certain circ.u.mstances even he might become capable also of a certain spurious spiritual exaltation. But if this was to bloom in his heart, it must be in a prison strong enough to protect from the blows of temptation. Adrian tempted would always be Adrian overcome. He was fas.h.i.+oned by nature to be the tool of others or of his own desires.

It may be asked what part had his mother in him; where in his weak ign.o.ble nature was the trace of her pure and n.o.ble character? It seems hard to find. Was this want to be accounted for by the circ.u.mstances connected with his birth, in which she had been so unwilling an agent? Had she given him something of her body but naught of that which was within her own control-her spirit? Who can say? This at least is true, that from his mother's stock he had derived nothing beyond a certain Dutch doggedness of purpose which, when added to his other qualities, might in some events make him formidable-a thing to fear and flee from.

Adrian reached the Witte Poort, and paused on this side of the moat to reflect about things in general. Like most young men of his time and blood, as has been said, he had military leanings, and was convinced that, given the opportunity, he might become one of the foremost generals of his age. Now he was engaged in imagining himself besieging Leyden at the head of a great army, and in fancy disposing his forces after such fas.h.i.+on as would bring about its fall in the shortest possible time. Little did he guess that within some few years this very question was to exercise the brain of Valdez and other great Spanish captains.

Whilst he was thus occupied suddenly a rude voice called, ”Wake up, Spaniard,” and a hard object-it was a green apple-struck him on his flat cap nearly knocking out the feather. Adrian leaped round with an oath, to catch sight of two lads, louts of about fifteen, projecting their tongues and jeering at him from behind the angles of the gate-house. Now Adrian was not popular with the youth of Leyden, and he knew it well. So, thinking it wisest to take no notice of this affront, he was about to continue on his way when one of the youths, made bold by impunity, stepped from his corner and bowed before him till the ragged cap in his hand touched the dust, saying, in a mocking voice, ”Hans, why do you disturb the n.o.ble hidalgo? Cannot you see that the n.o.ble hidalgo is going for a walk in the country to look for his most high father, the honourable duke of the Golden Fleece, to whom he is taking a c.o.c.kolly bird as a present?”

Adrian heard and winced at the sting of the insult, as a high-bred horse winces beneath the lash. Of a sudden rage boiled in his veins like a fountain of fire, and drawing the dagger from his girdle, he rushed at the boys, dragging the hooded hawk, which had become dislodged from his wrist, fluttering through the air after him. At that moment, indeed, he would have been capable of killing one or both of them if he could have caught them, but, fortunately for himself and them, being prepared for an onslaught, they vanished this way and that up the narrow lanes. Presently he stopped, and, still shaking with wrath, replaced the hawk on his wrist and walked across the bridge.

”They shall pay for it,” he muttered. ”Oh! I will not forget, I will not forget.”

Here it may be explained that of the story of his birth Adrian had heard something, but not all. He knew, for instance, that his father's name was Montalvo, that the marriage with his mother for some reason was declared to be illegal, and that this Montalvo had left the Netherlands under a cloud to find his death, so he had been told, abroad. More than this Adrian did not know for certain, since everybody showed a singular reticence in speaking to him of the matter. Twice he had plucked up courage to question his mother on the subject, and on each occasion her face had turned cold and hard as stone, and she answered almost in the same words: ”Son, I beg you to be silent. When I am dead you will find all the story of your birth written down, but if you are wise you will not read.”

Once he had asked the same question of his stepfather, Dirk van Goorl, whereupon Dirk looked ill at ease and answered: ”Take my advice, lad, and be content to know that you are here and alive with friends to take care of you. Remember that those who dig in churchyards find bones.”

”Indeed,” replied Adrian haughtily; ”at least I trust that there is nothing against my mother's reputation.”

At these words, to his surprise, Dirk suddenly turned pale as a sheet and stepped towards him as though he were about to fly at his throat.

”You dare to doubt your mother,” he began, ”that angel out of Heaven-” then ceased and added presently, ”Go! I beg your pardon; I should have remembered that you at least are innocent, and it is but natural that the matter weighs upon your mind.”

So Adrian went, also that proverb about churchyards and bones made such an impression on him that he did no more digging. In other words he ceased to ask questions, trying to console his mind with the knowledge that, however his father might have behaved to his mother, at least he was a man of ancient rank and ancient blood, which blood was his to-day. The rest would be forgotten, although enough of it was still remembered to permit of his being taunted by those street louts, and when it was forgotten the blood, that precious blue blood of an hidalgo of Spain, must still remain his heritage.

CHAPTER XI

ADRIAN RESCUES BEAUTY IN DISTRESS

All that long evening Adrian wandered about the causeways which pierced the meadowlands and marshes, pondering these things and picturing himself as having attained to the dignity of a grandee of Spain, perhaps even-who could tell-to the proud rank of a Knight of the Golden Fleece ent.i.tled to stand covered in the presence of his Sovereign. More than one snipe and other bird such as he had come to hawk rose at his feet, but so preoccupied was he that they were out of flight before he could unhood his falcon. At length, after he had pa.s.sed the church of Weddinvliet, and, following the left bank of the Old Vliet, was opposite to the wood named Boshhuyen after the half-ruined castle that stood in it, he caught sight of a heron winging its homeward way to the heronry, and cast off his peregrine out of the hood. She saw the quarry at once and dashed towards it, whereon the heron, becoming aware of the approach of its enemy, began to make play, rising high into the air in narrow circles. Swiftly the falcon climbed after it in wider rings till at length she hovered high above and stooped, but in vain. With a quick turn of the wings the heron avoided her, and before the falcon could find her pitch again, was far on its path towards the wood.

Once more the peregrine climbed and stooped with a like result. A third time she soared upwards in great circles, and a third time rushed downwards, now striking the quarry full and binding to it. Adrian, who was following their flight as fast as he could run, leaping some of the d.y.k.es in his path and splas.h.i.+ng through others, saw and paused to watch the end. For a moment hawk and quarry hung in the air two hundred feet above the tallest tree beneath them, for at the instant of its taking the heron had begun to descend to the grove for refuge, a struggling black dot against the glow of sunset. Then, still bound together, they rushed downward headlong, for their spread and fluttering wings did not serve to stay their fall, and vanished among the tree-tops.

”Now my good hawk will be killed in the boughs-oh! what a fool was I to fly so near the wood,” thought Adrian to himself as again he started forward.

Pus.h.i.+ng on at his best pace, soon he was wandering about among the trees as near to that spot where he had seen the birds fall as he could guess it, calling to the falcon and searching for her with his eyes. But here, in the dense grove, the fading light grew faint, so that at length he was obliged to abandon the quest in despair, and turned to find his way to the Leyden road. When within twenty paces of it, suddenly he came upon hawk and heron. The heron was stone dead, and the brave falcon so injured that it seemed hopeless to try to save her, for as he feared, they had crashed through the boughs of a tree in their fall. Adrian looked at her in dismay, for he loved this bird, which was the best of its kind in the city, having trained her himself from a nestling. Indeed there had always been a curious sympathy between himself and this fierce creature of which he made a companion as another man might of a dog. Even now he noted with a sort of pride that broken-winged and shattered though she was, her talons remained fixed in the back of the quarry, and her beak through the neck.

He stroked the falcon's head, whereon the bird, recognising him, loosed her grip of the heron and tried to flutter to her accustomed perch upon his wrist, only to fall to the ground, where she lay watching him with her bright eyes. Then, because there was no help for it, although he choked with grief at the deed, Adrian struck her on the head with his staff until she died.

”Goodbye, friend,” he muttered; ”at least that is the best way to go hence, dying with a dead foe beneath,” and, picking up the peregrine, he smoothed her ruffled feathers and placed her tenderly in his satchel.