Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (fantasy books to read txt) 📕

grandiose bearing and amorous sighs wearied her almost beyond endurance. Adrian was not equally pleased; indeed he had feigned symptoms which caused him to remain in bed an extra week, merely in order that he might keep her near him. But now the inevitable hour had come, and Adrian felt that it was incumbent upon him to lift the veil and let Elsa see some of the secret of his soul. He had prepared for the event; indeed the tedium of his confinement had been much relieved by the composition of lofty and heart-stirring addresses, in which he, the noble cavalier, laid his precious self and fortune at the feet of this undistinguished, but rich and attractive maid.

Yet now when the moment was with him, and when Elsa gave him her hand to lead him from the room, behold! all these beautiful imaginings had vanished, and his knees shook with no fancied weakness. Somehow Elsa did not look as a girl ought to look who was about to be proposed to; she was too cold and dignified, too utterly unconscious of anything unusual. It was disconcerting—but—it must be done.

By a superb effort Adrian recovered himself and opened with one of the fine speeches, not the best by any means, but the only specimen which he could remember.

“Without,” he began, “the free air waits to be pressed by my cramped wings, but although my heart bounds wild as that of any haggard hawk, I tell you, fairest Elsa, that in yonder gilded cage,” and he pointed to the bed, “I——”

“Heaven above us! Heer Adrian,” broke in Elsa in alarm, “are you—are you—getting giddy?”

“She does not understand. Poor child, how should she?” he murmured in a stage aside. Then he started again. “Yes, most adorable, best beloved, I am giddy, giddy with gratitude to those fair hands, giddy with worship of those lovely eyes——”

Now Elsa, unable to contain her merriment any longer, burst out laughing, but seeing that her adorer’s face was beginning to look as it did in the dining-room before he broke the blood vessel, she checked herself, and said:

“Oh! Heer Adrian, don’t waste all this fine poetry upon me. I am too stupid to understand it.”

“Poetry!” he exclaimed, becoming suddenly natural, “it isn’t poetry.”

“Then what is it?” she asked, and next moment could have bitten her tongue out.

“It is—it is—love!” and he sank upon his knees before her, where, she could not but notice, he looked very handsome in the subdued light of the room, with his upturned face blanched by sickness, and his southern glowing eyes. “Elsa, I love you and no other, and unless you return that love my heart will break and I shall die.”

Now, under ordinary circumstances, Elsa would have been quite competent to deal with the situation, but the fear of over-agitating Adrian complicated it greatly. About the reality of his feelings at the moment, at any rate, it seemed impossible to be mistaken, for the man was shaking like a leaf. Still, she must make an end of these advances.

“Rise, Heer Adrian,” she said gently, holding out her hand to help him to his feet.

He obeyed, and glancing at her face, saw that it was very calm and cold as winter ice.

“Listen, Heer Adrian,” she said. “You mean this kindly, and doubtless many a maid would be flattered by your words, but I must tell you that I am in no mood for love-making.”

“Because of another man?” he queried, and suddenly becoming theatrical again, added, “Speak on, let me hear the worst; I will not quail.”

“There is no need to,” replied Elsa in the same quiet voice, “because there is no other man. I have never yet thought of marriage, I have no wish that way, and if I had, I should forget it now when from hour to hour I do not know where my dear father may be, or what fate awaits him. He is my only lover, Heer Adrian,” and as Elsa spoke her soft brown eyes filled with tears.

“Ah!” said Adrian, “would that I might fly to save him from all dangers, as I rescued you, lady, from the bandits of the wood.”

“I would you might,” she replied, smiling sadly at the double meaning of the words, “but, hark, your mother is calling us. I know, Heer Adrian,” she added gently, “that you will understand and respect my dreadful anxiety, and will not trouble me again with poetry and love-talk, for if you do I shall be—angry.”

“Lady,” he answered, “your wishes are my law, and until these clouds have rolled from the blue heaven of your life I will be as silent as the watching moon. And, by the way,” he added rather nervously, “perhaps you will be silent also—about our talk, I mean, as we do not want that buffoon, Foy, thrusting his street-boy fun at us.”

Elsa bowed her head. She was inclined to resent the “we” and other things in this speech, but, above all, she did not wish to prolong this foolish and tiresome interview, so, without more words, she took her admirer by the hand and guided him down the stairs.

It was but three days after this ridiculous scene, on a certain afternoon, when Adrian had been out for the second time, that the evil tidings came. Dirk had heard them in the town, and returned home well-nigh weeping. Elsa saw his face and knew at once.

“Oh! is he dead?” she gasped.

He nodded, for he dared not trust himself to speak.

“How? Where?”

“In the Poort prison at The Hague.”

“How do you know?”

“I have seen a man who helped to bury him.”

She looked up as though to ask for further details, but Dirk turned away muttering, “He is dead, he is dead, let be.”

Then she understood, nor did she ever seek to know any more. Whatever he had suffered, at least now he was with the God he worshipped, and with the wife he lost. Only the poor orphan, comforted by Lysbeth, crept from the chamber, and for a week was seen no more. When she appeared again she seemed to be herself in all things, only she never smiled and was very indifferent to what took place about her. Thus she remained for many days.

Although this demeanour on Elsa’s part was understood and received with sympathy and more by the rest of the household, Adrian soon began to find it irksome and even ridiculous. So colossal was this young man’s vanity that he was unable quite to understand how a girl could be so wrapped up in the memories of a murdered father, that no place was left in her mind for the tendernesses of a present adorer. After all, this father, what was he? A middle-aged and, doubtless, quite uninteresting burgher, who could lay claim to but one distinction, that of great wealth, most of which had been amassed by his ancestors.

Now a rich man alive has points of interest, but a rich man dead is only interesting to his heirs. Also, this Brant was one of these narrow-minded, fanatical, New Religion fellows who were so wearisome to men of intellect and refinement. True, he, Adrian, was himself of that community, for circumstances had driven him into the herd, but oh! he found them a dreary set. Their bald doctrines of individual effort, of personal striving to win a personal redemption, did not appeal to him; moreover, they generally ended at the stake. Now about the pomp and circumstance of the Mother Church there was something attractive. Of course, as a matter of prejudice he attended its ceremonials from time to time and found them comfortable and satisfying. Comfortable also were the dogmas of forgiveness to be obtained by an act of penitential confession, and the sense of a great supporting force whose whole weight was at the disposal of the humblest believer.

In short, there was nothing picturesque about the excellent departed Hendrik, nothing that could justify the young woman in wrapping herself up in grief for him to the entire exclusion of a person who was picturesque and ready, at the first opportunity, to wrap himself up in her.

After long brooding, assisted by a close study of the romances of the period, Adrian convinced himself that in all this there was something unnatural, that the girl must be under a species of spell which in her own interest ought to be broken through. But how? That was the question. Try as he would he could do nothing. Therefore, like others in a difficulty, he determined to seek the assistance of an expert, namely, Black Meg, who, among her other occupations, for a certain fee payable in advance, was ready to give advice as a specialist in affairs of the heart.

To Black Meg accordingly he went, disguised, secretly and by night, for he loved mystery, and in truth it was hardly safe that he should visit her by the light of day. Seated in a shadowed chamber he poured out his artless tale to the pythoness, of course concealing all names. He might have spared himself this trouble, as he was an old client of Meg’s, a fact that no disguise could keep from her. Before he opened his lips she knew perfectly what was the name of his inamorata and indeed all the circumstances connected with the pair of them.

The wise woman listened in patience, and when he had done, shook her head, saying that the case was too hard for her. She proposed, however, to consult a Master more learned than herself, who, by great good fortune, was at that moment in Leyden, frequenting her house in fact, and begged that Adrian would return at the same hour on the morrow.

Now, as it chanced, oddly enough Black Meg had been commissioned by the said Master to bring about a meeting between himself and this very young man.

Adrian returned accordingly, and was informed that the Master, after consulting the stars and other sources of divination, had become so deeply interested in the affair that, for pure love of the thing and not for any temporal purpose of gain, he was in attendance to advise in person. Adrian was overjoyed, and prayed that he might be introduced. Presently a noble-looking form entered the room, wrapped in a long cloak. Adrian bowed, and the form, after contemplating him earnestly—very earnestly, if he had known the truth—acknowledged the salute with dignity. Adrian cleared his throat and began to speak, whereon the sage stopped him.

“Explanations are needless, young man,” he said, in a measured and melodious voice, “for my studies of the matter have already informed me of more than you can tell. Let me see; your name is Adrian van Goorl—no, called Van Goorl; the lady you desire to win is Elsa Brant, the daughter of Hendrik Brant, a heretic and well-known goldsmith, who was recently executed at The Hague. She is a girl of much beauty, but one unnaturally insensible to the influence of love, and who does not at present recognise your worth. There are, also, unless I am mistaken, other important circumstances connected with the case.

“This lady is a great heiress, but her fortune is at present missing; it is, I have reason to believe, hidden in the Haarlemer Meer. She is surrounded with influences that are inimical to you, all of which, however, can be overcome if you will place yourself unreservedly in my hands, for, young man, I accept no half-confidences, nor do I ask for any fee. When the fortune is recovered and the maiden is your happy wife, then we will talk of payment for services rendered, and not before.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” gasped Adrian; “most learned señor, every word you say is true.”

“Yes, friend Adrian, and I have not told you all the truth. For instance—but, no, this is not the time to speak. The question is, do you accept my terms?”

“What terms, señor?”

“The old terms, without which no wonder can be worked—faith, absolute faith.”

Adrian hesitated a little. Absolute faith seemed a large present to give a complete stranger at a first interview.

“I read your thought and I respect it,” went on the sage, who, to tell truth, was afraid he had ventured a little too far. “There is no hurry; these affairs cannot be concluded in a day.”

Adrian admitted that they could not, but intimated that he would be glad of a little practical and immediate assistance. The sage buried his face in his hands and thought.

“The first thing to do,” he said presently, “is to induce a favourable disposition of the maiden’s mind towards yourself, and this, I think, can best be brought about—though the method is one which I do not often use—by means of a love philtre carefully compounded to suit the circumstances of the case. If you will come here to-morrow at dusk, the lady of this house—a worthy woman, though