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Updated: May 15, 2025
In an instant these thoughts flashed through her mind, but all she did was to murmur something about the Heer van Goorl "Has already given his consent, like an unselfish gentleman," broke in Captain Juan tendering her his hand.
What an end that would be, to be frozen to death in the snow on these sand-hills while the spirit of Dirk van Goorl sat near and watched him die with those hollow, hungry eyes. The sweat came upon Adrian's forehead at the thought, and he broke into a run, heading for the bank of the great dyke that pierced the dunes half a mile or so away, which bank must, he knew, lead him to the mill.
Indeed, had they been affianced, what would 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 that Lysbeth was one of those stubborn-natured creatures who would probably decline to marry himself until this young Leyden lout had vanished.
"Foy van Goorl and Martin, his father's servant, travelling to The Hague with specimens of brassware, consigned to the correspondents of our firm," answered Foy, indifferently. "You are very glib," sneered the sandy-whiskered man; "what is the mule laden with? It may be Bibles for all I know." "Nothing half so valuable, master," replied Foy; "it is a church chandelier in pieces."
Lysbeth van Goorl, recovered from her illness now, but aged and grown stern with suffering, sat in an armchair in the great parlour of her home in the Bree Straat, the room where as a girl she had cursed Montalvo; where too not a year ago, she had driven his son, the traitor Adrian, from her presence.
It was after ten o'clock that night when a woman, wrapped in a rough frieze coat, knocked at the door of the house in the Bree Straat and asked for the Vrouw van Goorl. "My mistress lies between life and death with the plague," answered the servant. "Get you gone from this pest-house, whoever you are." "I do not fear the plague," said the visitor. "Is the Jufvrouw Elsa Brant still up?
The spiritual lion was that Brant was connected with Lysbeth van Goorl, once known as Lysbeth de Montalvo, a lady who had brought her reputed husband no luck.
Listen, wife," he went on, addressing the stout lady, who all this while had sat still upon the horse, so alarmed and bewildered that she could not speak, "here is a son of Dirk van Goorl, to whom we are charged to deliver Elsa." "Indeed," answered the good woman, recovering herself somewhat, "I thought from the look of him that he was a Spanish nobleman.
"No, I am acquainted with her, that is all." "At least you are a friend of the Heer Dirk van Goorl who has left this town for Alkmaar; he who was her lover?" "Yes, I am his cousin, but he is not the lover of any married woman." "No, no, of course not; love cannot look through a bridal veil, can it? Still, you are his friend, and, therefore, perhaps, her friend, and she isn't happy." "Indeed?
Lysbeth leant over the bed and kissed the sick woman, but started back when she saw that the glands of her neck were swollen into great lumps, while the face was flushed and the eyes so bloodshot as to be almost red. Still she knew her visitor, for she whispered: "What is the matter with me, Vrouw van Goorl? Is it the smallpox coming on? Tell me, friend, the doctor would not speak."
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