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

her own shame and betrayal. She made no sign at all beyond a little twitching of her fingers, till Foy, guessing what she suffered in her heart, suddenly went to his mother and kissed her. Then she wept a few silent tears, for an instant laid her hand upon his head as though in blessing, and, motioning him back to his place, became herself again—stern, unmoved, observant.

Next Dirk, taking up his tale, spoke of his wife’s fears, and of her belief that there was a plot to wring out of them the secret of Hendrik Brant’s treasure.

“Happily,” he said, addressing Foy, “neither your mother nor I, nor Adrian, nor Elsa, know that secret; you and Martin know it alone, you and perhaps one other who is far away and cannot be caught. We do not know it, and we do not wish to know it, and whatever happens to any of us, it is our earnest hope that neither of you will betray it, even if our lives, or your lives, hang upon the words, for we hold it better that we should keep our trust with a dead man at all costs than that we should save ourselves by breaking faith. Is it not so, wife?”

“It is so,” answered Lysbeth hoarsely.

“Have no fear,” said Foy. “We will die before we betray.”

“We will try to die before we betray,” grumbled Martin in his deep voice, “but flesh is frail and God knows.”

“Oh! I have no doubt of you, honest man,” said Dirk with a smile, “for you have no mother and father to think of in this matter.”

“Then, master, you are foolish,” replied Martin, “for I repeat it—flesh is frail, and I always hated the look of a rack. However, I have a handsome legacy charged upon this treasure, and perhaps the thought of that would support me. Alive or dead, I should not like to think of my money being spent by any Spaniard.”

While Martin spoke the strangeness of the thing came home to Foy. Here were four of them, two of whom knew a secret and two who did not, while those who did not implored those who did to impart to them nothing of the knowledge which, if they had it, might serve to save them from a fearful doom. Then for the first time in his young and inexperienced life he understood how great erring men and women can be and what patient majesty dwells in the human heart, that for the sake of a trust it does not seek can yet defy the most hideous terrors of the body and the soul. Indeed, that scene stamped itself upon his mind in such fashion that throughout his long existence he never quite forgot it for a single day. His mother, clad in her frilled white cap and grey gown, seated cold-faced and resolute in the oaken chair. His father, to whom, although he knew it not, he was now speaking for the last time, standing by her, his hand resting upon her shoulder and addressing them in his quiet, honest voice. Martin standing also but a little to one side and behind, the light of the morning playing upon his great red beard; his round, pale eyes glittering as was their fashion when wrathful, and himself, Foy, leaning forward to listen, every nerve in his body strung tight with excitement, love, and fear.

Oh! he never forgot it, which is not strange, for so great was the strain upon him, so well did he know that this scene was but the prelude to terrible events, that for a moment, only for a moment, his steady reason was shaken and he saw a vision. Martin, the huge, patient, ox-like Martin, was changed into a red Vengeance; he saw him, great sword aloft, he heard the roar of his battle cry, and lo! before him men went down to death, and about him the floor seemed purple with their blood. His father and his mother, too; they were no longer human, they were saints—see the glory which shone over them, and look, too, the dead Hendrik Brant was whispering in their ears. And he, Foy, he was beside Martin playing his part in those red frays as best he might, and playing it not in vain.

Then all passed, and a wave of peace rolled over him, a great sense of duty done, of honour satisfied, of reward attained. Lo! the play was finished, and its ultimate meaning clear, but before he could read and understand—it had gone.

He gasped and shook himself, gripping his hands together.

“What have you seen, son?” asked Lysbeth, watching his face.

“Strange things, mother,” Foy answered. “A vision of war for Martin and me, of glory for my father and you, and of eternal peace for us all.”

“It is a good omen, Foy,” she said. “Fight your fight and leave us to fight ours. ‘Through much tribulation we must enter into the Kingdom of God,’ where at last there is a rest remaining for us all. It is a good omen. Your father was right and I was wrong. Now I have no more to fear; I am satisfied.”

None of them seemed to be amazed or to find these words wonderful and out of the common. For them the hand of approaching Doom had opened the gates of Distance, and they knew everyone that through these some light had broken on their souls, a faint flicker of dawn from beyond the clouds. They accepted it in thankfulness.

“I think that is all I have to say,” said Dirk in his usual voice. “No, it is not all,” and he told them of his plan for flight. They listened and agreed to it, yet to them it seemed a thing far off and unreal. None of them believed that this escape would ever be carried out. All of them believed that here in Leyden they would endure the fiery trial of their faith and win each of them its separate crown.

When everything was discussed, and each had learned the lesson of what he must do that day, Foy asked if Adrian was to be told of the scheme. To this his father answered hastily that the less it was spoken of the better, therefore he proposed to tell Adrian late that night only, when he could make up his mind whether he would accompany them or stay in Leyden.

“Then he shan’t go out to-night, and will come with us as far as the ship only if I can manage it,” muttered Martin beneath his breath, but aloud he said nothing. Somehow it did not seem to him to be worth while to make trouble about it, for he knew that if he did his mistress and Foy, who believed so heartily in Adrian, would be angry.

“Father and mother,” said Foy again, “while we are gathered here there is something I wish to say to you.”

“What is it, son?” asked Dirk.

“Yesterday I became affianced to Elsa Brant, and we wish to ask your consent and blessing.”

“That will be gladly given, son, for I think this very good news. Bring her here, Foy,” answered Dirk.

But although in his hurry Foy did not notice it, his mother said nothing. She liked Elsa well indeed—who would not?—but oh! this brought them a step nearer to that accursed treasure, the treasure which from generation to generation had been hoarded up that it might be a doom to men. If Foy were affianced to Elsa, it was his inheritance as well as hers, for those trusts of Hendrik Brant’s will were to Lysbeth things unreal and visionary, and its curse would fall upon him as well as upon her. Moreover it might be said that he was marrying her to win the wealth.

“This betrothal does not please you; you are sad, wife,” said Dirk, looking at her quickly.

“Yes, husband, for now I think that we shall never get out of Leyden. I pray that Adrian may not hear of it, that is all.”

“Why, what has he to do with the matter?”

“Only that he is madly in love with the girl. Have you not seen it? And—you know his temper.”

“Adrian, Adrian, always Adrian,” answered Dirk impatiently. “Well, it is a very fitting match, for if she has a great fortune hidden somewhere in a swamp, which in fact she has not, since the bulk of it is bequeathed to me to be used for certain purposes; he has, or will have, moneys also—safe at interest in England. Hark! here they come, so, wife, put on a pleasant face; they will think it unlucky if you do not smile.”

As he spoke Foy re-entered the room, leading Elsa by the hand, and she looked as sweet a maid as ever the sun shone on. So they told their story, and kneeling down before Dirk, received his blessing in the old fashion, and very glad were they in the after years to remember that it had been so received. Then they turned to Lysbeth, and she also lifted up her hand to bless them, but ere it touched their heads, do what she would to check it, a cry forced its way to her lips, and she said:

“Oh! children, doubtless you love each other well, but is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?”

“My own words, my very words,” exclaimed Elsa, springing to her feet and turning pale.

Foy looked vexed. Then recovering himself and trying to smile, he said:

“And I give them the same answer—that two are better than one; moreover, this is a betrothal, not a marriage.”

“Ay,” muttered Martin behind, thinking aloud after his fashion, “betrothal is one thing and marriage another,” but low as he spoke Elsa overheard him.

“Your mother is upset,” broke in Dirk, “and you can guess why, so do not disturb her more at present. Let us to our business, you and Martin to the factory to make arrangements there as I have told you, and I, after I have seen the captain, to whatever God shall call me to do. So, till we meet again, farewell, my son—and daughter,” he added, smiling at Elsa.

They left the room, but as Martin was following them Lysbeth called him back.

“Go armed to the factory, Martin,” she said, “and see that your young master wears that steel shirt beneath his jerkin.”

Martin nodded and went.

Adrian woke up that morning in an ill mood. He had, it is true, administered his love potion with singular dexterity and success, but as yet he reaped no fruit from his labours, and was desperately afraid lest the effect of the magic draught might wear off. When he came downstairs it was to find that Foy and Martin were already departed to the factory, and that his stepfather had gone out, whither he knew not. This was so much to the good, for it left the coast clear. Still he was none the better off, since either his mother and Elsa had taken their breakfast upstairs, or they had dispensed with that meal. His mother he could spare, especially after her recent contact with a plague patient, but under the circumstances Elsa’s absence was annoying. Moreover, suddenly the house had become uncomfortable, for every one in it seemed to be running about carrying articles hither and thither in a fashion so aimless that it struck him as little short of insane. Once or twice also he saw Elsa, but she, too, was carrying things, and had no time for conversation.

At length Adrian wearied of it and departed to the factory with the view of making up his books, which, to tell the truth, had been somewhat neglected of late, to find that here, too, the same confusion reigned. Instead of attending to his ordinary work, Martin was marching to and fro bearing choice pieces of brassware, which were being packed into crates, and he noticed, for Adrian was an observant young man, that he was not wearing his usual artisan’s dress. Why, he wondered to himself, should Martin walk about a factory upon a summer’s day clad in his armour of quilted bull’s hide, and wearing his great sword Silence strapped round his middle? Why, too, should Foy have removed the books and be engaged in going through them with a clerk? Was he auditing them? If so, he wished him joy of the job, since to bring them to a satisfactory balance had proved recently quite beyond his own powers. Not that there was anything wrong with the books, for he, Adrian, had kept them quite honestly according to his very imperfect lights, only things must have been left out, for balance they would not. Well, on the whole, he was glad, since a man filled with lover’s hopes and fears was in no mood for