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

The day passed, and through every hour of it the snow fell incessantly. Night came, and it was still falling in large, soft flakes that floated to the earth gently as thistledown, for now there was no wind. Adrian met his father at meals only; the rest of the day he preferred to spend out of doors in the snow, or hanging about the old sheds at the back of the mill, rather than endure the society of this terrible man; this man of mocking words and iron purpose, who was forcing him into the commission of a great crime.

It was at breakfast on the following morning that Ramiro inquired of Black Meg whether the Jufvrouw Brant had sufficiently recovered from the fatigues of her journey to honour them with her presence. The woman replied that she absolutely refused to leave her room, or even to speak more than was necessary.

“Then,” said Ramiro, “as it is important that I should have a few words with her, be so good as to tell the young lady, with my homage, that I will do myself the honour of waiting on her in the course of the forenoon.”

Meg departed on her errand, and Adrian looked up suspiciously.

“Calm yourself, young friend,” said his father, “although the interview will be private, you have really no cause for jealousy. At present, remember, I am but the second string in the bow-case, the understudy who has learnt the part, a humble position, but one which may prove useful.”

At all of which gibes Adrian winced. But he did not reply, for by now he had learned that he was no match for his father’s bitter wit.

Elsa received the message as she received everything else, in silence.

Three days before, as after a fearful illness during which on several occasions she was at the very doors of death, Lysbeth van Goorl had been declared out of danger, Elsa, her nurse, ventured to leave her for a few hours. That evening the town seemed to stifle her and, feeling that she needed the air of the country, she passed the Morsch poort and walked a little way along the banks of the canal, never noticing, poor girl, that her footsteps were dogged. When it began to grow dusk, she halted and stood a while gazing towards the Haarlemer Meer, letting her heart go out to the lover who, as she thought and hoped, within a day or two would be at her side.

Then it was that something was thrown over her head, and for a while all was black. She awoke to find herself lying in a boat, and watching her, two wretches, whom she recognised as those who had assailed her when first she came to Leyden from The Hague.

“Why have you kidnapped me, and where am I going?” she asked.

“Because we are paid to do it, and you are going to Adrian van Goorl,” was the answer.

Then she understood, and was silent.

Thus they brought her to this lonesome, murderous-looking place, where sure enough Adrian was waiting for her, waiting with a lie upon his lips. Now, doubtless, the end was at hand. She, who loved his brother with all her heart and soul, was to be given forcibly in marriage to a man whom she despised and loathed, the vain, furious-tempered traitor, who, for revenge, jealousy, or greed, she knew not which, had not hesitated to send his benefactor, and mother’s husband, to perish in the fires of the Inquisition.

What was she to do? Escape seemed out of the question, imprisoned as she was on the third story of a lofty mill standing in a lonely, snow-shrouded wilderness, cut off from the sight of every friendly face, and spied on hour after hour by two fierce-eyed women. No, there was only one escape for her—through the gate of death. Even this would be difficult, for she had no weapon, and day and night the women kept guard over her, one standing sentinel, while the other slept. Moreover, she had no mind to die, being young and healthy, with a love to live for, and from her childhood up she had been taught that self-slaughter is a sin. No, she would trust in God, and overwhelming though it was, fight her way through this trouble as best she might. The helpless find friends sometimes. Therefore, that her strength might be preserved, Elsa rested and ate of her food, and drank the wine which they brought to her, refusing to leave the room, or to speak more than she was obliged, but watching everything that passed.

On the second morning of her imprisonment Ramiro’s message reached her, to which, as usual, she made no answer. In due course also Ramiro himself arrived, and stood bowing in the doorway.

“Have I your permission to enter, Jufvrouw?” he asked. Then Elsa, knowing that the moment of trial had come, steeled herself for the encounter.

“You are master here,” she answered, in a voice cold as the falling snow without, “why then do you mock me?”

He motioned to the women to leave the room, and when they had gone, replied:

“I have little thought of such a thing, lady; the matter in hand is too serious for smart sayings,” and with another bow he sat himself down on a chair near the hearth, where a fire was burning. Whereon Elsa rose and stood over against him, for upon her feet she seemed to feel stronger.

“Will you be so good as to set out this matter, Señor Ramiro? Am I brought here to be tried for heresy?”

“Even so, for heresy against the god of love, and the sentence of the Court is that you must expiate your sin, not at the stake, but at the altar.”

“I do not understand.”

“Then I will explain. My son Adrian, a worthy young man on the whole—you know that he is my son, do you not?—has had the misfortune, or I should say the good fortune, to fall earnestly in love with you, whereas you have the bad taste—or, perhaps, the good taste—to give your affections elsewhere. Under the circumstances, Adrian, being a youth of spirit and resource, has fallen back upon primitive methods in order to bring his suit to a successful conclusion. He is here, you are here, and this evening I understand that the priest will be here. I need not dwell upon the obvious issue; indeed, it is a private matter upon which I have no right to intrude, except, of course, as a relative and a well-wisher.”

Elsa made an impatient movement with her hand, as though to brush aside all this web of words.

“Why do you take so much trouble to force an unhappy girl into a hateful marriage?” she asked. “How can such a thing advantage you?”

“Ah!” answered Ramiro briskly, “I perceive I have to do with a woman of business, one who has that rarest of gifts—common sense. I will be frank. Your esteemed father died possessed of a very large fortune, which to-day is your property as his sole issue and heiress. Under the marriage laws, which I myself think unjust, that fortune will pass into the power of any husband whom you choose to take. Therefore, so soon as you are made his wife it will pass to Adrian. I am Adrian’s father, and, as it happens, he is pecuniarily indebted to me to a considerable amount, so that, in the upshot, as he himself has pointed out more than once, this alliance will provide for both of us. But business details are wearisome, so I need not enlarge.”

“The fortune you speak of, Señor Ramiro, is lost.”

“It is lost, but I have reason to hope that it will be found.”

“You mean that this is purely a matter of money?”

“So far as I am concerned, purely. For Adrian’s feelings I cannot speak, since who knows the mystery of another’s heart?”

“Then, if the money were forthcoming—or a clue to it—there need be no marriage?”

“So far as I am concerned, none at all.”

“And if the money is not forthcoming, and I refuse to marry the Heer Adrian, or he to marry me—what then?”

“That is a riddle, but I think I see an answer at any rate to half of it. Then the marriage would still take place, but with another bridegroom.”

“Another bridegroom! Who?”

“Your humble and devoted adorer.”

Elsa shuddered and recoiled a step.

“Ah!” he said, “I should not have bowed, you saw my white hairs—to the young a hateful sight.”

Elsa’s indignation rose, and she answered:

“It is not your white hair that I shrink from, Señor, which in some would be a crown of honour, but——”

“In my case suggests to you other reflections. Be gentle and spare me them. In a world of rough actions, what need to emphasise them with rough words?”

For a few minutes there was silence, which Ramiro, glancing out of the lattice, broke by remarking that “The snowfall was extraordinarily heavy for the time of year.” Then followed another silence.

“I understood you just now, dear lady, to make some sort of suggestion which might lead to an arrangement satisfactory to both of us. The exact locality of this wealth is at present obscure—you mentioned some clue. Are you in a position to furnish such a clue?”

“If I am in a position, what then?”

“Then, perhaps, after a few days visit to an interesting, but little explored part of Holland, you might return to your friends as you left them—in short as a single woman.”

A struggle shook Elsa, and do what she would some trace of it appeared in her face.

“Do you swear that?” she whispered.

“Most certainly.”

“Do you swear before God that if you have this clue you will not force me into a marriage with the Heer Adrian, or with yourself—that you will let me go, unharmed?”

“I swear it—before God.”

“Knowing that God will be revenged upon you if you break the oath, you still swear?”

“I still swear. Why these needless repetitions?”

“Then—then,” and she leant towards him, speaking in a hoarse whisper, “believing that you, even you, will not dare to be false to such an oath, for you, even you, must fear death, a miserable death, and vengeance, eternal vengeance, I give you the clue: It lies in the hilt of the sword Silence.”

“The sword Silence? What sword is that?”

“The great sword of Red Martin.”

Stirred out of his self-control, Ramiro struck his hand upon his knee.

“And to think,” he said, “that for over twelve hours I had it hanging on the wall of the Gevangenhuis! Well, I fear that I must ask you to be more explicit. Where is this sword?”

“Wherever Red Martin is, that is all I know. I can tell you no more; the plan of the hiding-place is there.”

“Or was there. Well, I believe you, but to win a secret from the hilt of the sword of the man who broke his way out of the torture-chamber of the Gevangenhuis, is a labour that would have been not unworthy of Hercules.