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

had come to seek. It was that cursed treasure of Hendrik Brant’s which had drawn him. She knew from Elsa that for a year at least the man Ramiro had been plotting to steal this money at The Hague. He had failed there, failed with overwhelming and shameful loss through the bravery and resource of her son Foy and their henchman, Red Martin. Now he had discovered their identity; he was aware that they held the secret of the hiding-place of that accursed hoard, they and no others, and he had established himself in Leyden to wring it out of them. It was clear, clear as the setting orb of the red sun before her. She knew the man—had she not lived with him?—and there could be no doubt about it, and—he was the new governor of the Gevangenhuis. Doubtless he has purchased that post for his own dark purposes and—to be near them.

Sick and half blind with the intensity of her dread, Lysbeth staggered home. She must tell Dirk, that was her one thought; but no, she had been in contact with the plague, first she must purify herself. So she went to her room, and although it was summer, lit a great fire on the hearth, and in it burned her garments. Then she bathed and fumigated her hair and body over a brazier of strong herbs, such as in those days of frequent and virulent sickness housewives kept at hand, after which she dressed herself afresh and went to seek her husband. She found him at a desk in his private room reading some paper, which at her approach he shuffled into a drawer.

“What is that, Dirk?” she asked with sudden suspicion.

He pretended not to hear, and she repeated the query.

“Well, wife, if you wish to know,” he answered in his blunt fashion, “it is my will.”

“Why are you reading your will?” she asked again, beginning to tremble, for her nerves were afire, and this simple accident struck her as something awful and ominous.

“For no particular reason, wife,” he replied quietly, “only that we all must die, early or late. There is no escape from that, and in these times it is more often early than late, so it is as well to be sure that everything is in order for those who come after us. Now, since we are on the subject, which I have never cared to speak about, listen to me.”

“What about, husband?”

“Why, about my will. Look you, Hendrik Brant and his treasure have taught me a lesson. I am not a man of his substance, or a tenth of it, but in some countries I should be called rich, for I have worked hard and God has prospered me. Well, of late I have been realising where I could, also the bulk of my savings is in cash. But the cash is not here, not in this country at all. You know my correspondents, Munt and Brown, of Norwich, in England, to whom we ship our goods for the English market. They are honest folk, and Munt owes me everything, almost to his life. Well, they have the money, it has reached them safely, thanks be to God, and with it a counterpart of this my will duly attested, and here is their letter of acknowledgment stating that they have laid it out carefully at interest upon mortgage on great estates in Norfolk where it lies to my order, or that of my heirs, and that a duplicate acknowledgment has been filed in their English registries in case this should go astray. Little remains here except this house and the factory, and even on those I have raised money. Meanwhile the business is left to live on, and beyond it the rents which will come from England, so that whether I be living or dead you need fear no want. But what is the matter with you, Lysbeth? You look strange.”

“Oh! husband, husband,” she gasped, “Juan de Montalvo is here again. He has appeared as the new governor of the gaol. I saw him this afternoon, I cannot be mistaken, although he has lost an eye and is much changed.”

Dirk’s jaw dropped and his florid face whitened. “Juan de Montalvo!” he said. “I heard that he was dead long ago.”

“You are mistaken, husband, a devil never dies. He is seeking Brant’s treasure, and he knows that we have its secret. You can guess the rest. More, now that I think of it, I have heard that a strange Spaniard is lodging with Hague Simon, he whom they call the Butcher, and Black Meg, of whom we have cause to know. Doubtless it is he, and—Dirk, death overshadows us.”

“Why should he know of Brant’s treasure, wife?”

“Because he is Ramiro, the man who dogged him down, the man who followed the ship Swallow to the Haarlemer Meer. Elsa was with me this afternoon, she knew him again.”

Dirk thought a while, resting his head upon his hand. Then he lifted it and said:

“I am very glad that I sent the money to Munt and Brown, Heaven gave me that thought. Well, wife, what is your counsel now?”

“My counsel is that we should fly from Leyden—all of us, yes, this very night before worse happens.”

He smiled. “That cannot be; there are no means of flight, and under the new laws we could not pass the gates; that trick has been played too often. Still, in a day or two, when I have had time to arrange, we might escape if you still wish to go.”

“To-night, to-night,” she urged, “or some of us stay for ever.”

“I tell you, wife, it is not possible. Am I a rat that I should be bolted from my hole thus by this ferret of a Montalvo? I am a man of peace and no longer young, but let him beware lest I stop here long enough to pass a sword through him.”

“So be it, husband,” she replied, “but I think it is through my heart that the sword will pass,” and she burst out weeping.

Supper that night was a somewhat melancholy meal. Dirk and Lysbeth sat at the ends of the table in silence. On one side of fit were placed Foy and Elsa, who were also silent for a very different reason, while opposite to them was Adrian, who watched Elsa with an anxious and inquiring eye.

That the love potion worked he was certain, for she looked confused and a little flushed; also, as would be natural under the circumstances, she avoided his glance and made pretence to be interested in Foy, who seemed rather more stupid than usual. Well, so soon as he could find his chance all this would be cleared up, but meanwhile the general gloom and silence were affecting his nerves.

“What have you been doing this afternoon, mother?” Adrian asked presently.

“I, son?” she replied with a start, “I have been visiting the unhappy Vrouw Jansen, whom I found very sick.”

“What is the matter with her, mother?”

Lysbeth’s mind, which had wandered away, again returned to the subject at hand with an effort.

“The matter? Oh! she has the plague.”

“The plague!” exclaimed Adrian, springing to his feet, “do you mean to say you have been consorting with a woman who has the plague?”

“I fear so,” she answered with a smile, “but do not be frightened, Adrian, I have burnt my clothes and fumigated myself.”

Still Adrian was frightened. His recent experience of sickness had been ample, and although he was no coward he had a special dislike of infectious diseases, which at the time were many.

“It is horrible,” he said, “horrible. I only hope that we—I mean you—may escape. The house is unbearably close. I am going to walk in the courtyard,” and away he went, for the moment, at any rate, forgetting all about Elsa and the love potion.