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

mere form,” repeated Ramiro, “of course. But the world attaches so much importance to forms, so I think that we will have this one witnessed—No, not by myself, who am an interested party—by someone independent,” and calling Hague Simon and the waiting-woman he bade them set their names at the foot of the documents.

“Papers signed in advance—fees paid in advance!” he went on, handing over the money, “and now, just one more glass to drink the health of the bride and bridegroom, also in advance. You will not refuse, nor you, worthy Simon, nor you, most excellent Abigail. Ah! I thought not, the night is cold.”

“And the brandy strong,” muttered the priest thickly, as this third dose of raw spirit took effect upon him. “Now get on with the business, for I want to be out of this hole before the flood comes.”

“Quite so. Friends, will you be so good as to summon my son and the lady? The lady first, I think—and all three of you might go to escort her. Brides sometimes consider it right to fain a slight reluctance—you understand? On second thoughts, you need not trouble the Señor Adrian. I have a new words of ante-nuptial advice to offer, so I will go to him.”

A minute later father and son stood face to face. Adrian leaped up; he shook his fist, he raved and stormed at the cold, impassive man before him.

“You fool, you contemptible fool!” said Ramiro when he had done. “Heavens! to think that such a creature should have sprung from me, a human jackass only fit to bear the blows and burdens of others, to fill the field with empty brayings, and wear himself out by kicking at the air. Oh! don’t twist up your face at me, for I am your master as well as your father, however much you may hate me. You are mine, body and soul, don’t you understand; a bond-slave, nothing more. You lost the only chance you ever had in the game when you got me down at Leyden. You daren’t draw a sword on me again for your soul’s sake, dear Adrian, for your soul’s sake; and if you dared, I would run you through. Now, are you coming?”

“No,” answered Adrian.

“Think a minute. If you don’t marry her I shall, and before she is half an hour older; also—” and he leant forward and whispered into his son’s ear.

“Oh! you devil, you devil!” Adrian gasped; then he moved towards the door.

“What? Changed your mind, have you, Mr. Weathercock? Well, it is the prerogative of all feminine natures—but, your doublet is awry, and allow me to suggest that you should brush your hair. There, that’s better; now, come on. No, you go first, if you please, I’d rather have you in front of me.”

When they reached the room below the bride was already there. Gripped on either side by Black Meg and the other woman, white as death and trembling, but still defiant, stood Elsa.

“Let’s get through with this,” growled the half-drunken, ruffian priest. “I take the willingness of the parties for granted.”

“I am not willing,” cried Elsa. “I have been brought here by force. I call everyone present to witness that whatever is done is against my will. I appeal to God to help me.”

The priest turned upon Ramiro.

“How am I to marry them in the face of this?” he asked. “If only she were silent it might be done——”

“The difficulty has occurred to me,” answered Ramiro. He made a sign, whereon Simon seized Elsa’s wrists, and Black Meg, slipping behind her, deftly fastened a handkerchief over her mouth in such fashion that she was gagged, but could still breathe through the nostrils.

Elsa struggled a little, then was quiet, and turned her piteous eyes on Adrian, who stepped forward and opened his lips.

“You remember the alternative,” said his father in a low voice, and he stopped.

“I suppose,” broke in Father Thomas, “that we may at any rate reckon upon the consent, or at least upon the silence of the Heer bridegroom.”

“You may reckon on his silence, Father Thomas,” replied Ramiro.

Then the ceremony began. They dragged Elsa to the table. Thrice she flung herself to the ground, and thrice they lifted her to her feet, but at length, weary of the weight of her body, suffered her to rest upon her knees, where she remained as though in prayer, gagged like some victim on the scaffold. It was a strange and brutal scene, and every detail of it burned itself into Adrian’s mind. The round, rude room, with its glowing fire of turfs and its rough, oaken furniture, half in light and half in dense shadow, as the lamp-rays chanced to fall; the death-like, kneeling bride, with a white cloth across her tortured face; the red-chopped, hanging-lipped hedge priest gabbling from a book, his back almost turned that he might not see her attitude and struggles; the horrible, unsexed women; the flat-faced villain, Simon, grinning by the hearth; Ramiro, cynical, mocking, triumphant, and yet somewhat anxious, his one bright eye fixed in mingled contempt and amusement upon him, Adrian—those were its outlines. There was something else also that caught and oppressed his sense, a sound which at the time Adrian thought he heard in his head alone, a soft, heavy sound with a moan in it, not unlike that of the wind, which grew gradually to a dull roar.

It was over. A ring had been forced on to Elsa’s unwilling hand, and, until the thing was undone by some competent and authorised Court, she was in name the wife of Adrian. The handkerchief was unbound, her hands were loosed, physically, Elsa was free again, but, in that day and land of outrage, tied, as the poor girl knew well, by a chain more terrible than any that hemp or steel could fashion.

“Congratulations! Señora,” muttered Father Thomas, eyeing her nervously. “I fear you felt a little faint during the service, but a sacrament——”

“Cease your mockings, you false priest,” cried Elsa. “Oh! let the swift vengeance of God fall upon every one of you, and first of all upon you, false priest.”

Drawing the ring from her finger, as she spoke she cast it down upon the oaken table, whence it sprang up to drop again and rattle itself to silence. Then with one tragic motion of despair, Elsa turned and fled back to her chamber.

The red face of Father Thomas went white, and his yellow teeth chattered. “A virgin’s curse,” he muttered, crossing himself. “Misfortune always follows, and it is sometimes death—yes, by St. Thomas, death. And you, you brought me here to do this wickedness, you dog, you galley slave!”

“Father,” broke in Ramiro, “you know I have warned you against it before at The Hague; sooner or later it always breaks up the nerves,” and he nodded towards the flagon of spirits. “Bread and water, Father, bread and water for forty days, that is what I prescribe, and——”

As he spoke the door was burst open, and two men rushed in, their eyes starting, their very beards bristling with terror.

“Come forth!” they cried.

“What has chanced?” screamed the priest.

“The great dyke has burst—hark, hark, hark! The floods are upon you, the mill will be swept away.”

God in Heaven—it was true! Now through the open doorway they heard the roar of waters, whose note Adrian had caught before, yes, and in the gloom appeared their foaming crest as they rushed through the great and ever-widening breach in the lofty dyke down upon the flooded lowland.

Father Thomas bounded through the door yelling, “The boat, the boat!” For a moment Ramiro thought, considering the situation, then he said:

“Fetch the Jufvrouw. No, not you, Adrian; she would die rather than come with you. You, Simon, and you, Meg. Swift, obey.”

They departed on their errand.

“Men,” went on Ramiro, “take this gentleman and lead him to the boat. Hold him if he tries to escape. I will follow with the lady. Go, you fool, go, there is not a second to be lost,” and Adrian, hanging back and protesting, was dragged away by the boatmen.

Now Ramiro was alone, and though, as he had said, there was little time to spare, again for a few moments he thought deeply. His face flushed and went pale; then entered into it a great resolve. “I don’t like doing it, for it is against my vow, but the chance is good. She is safely married, and at best she would be very troublesome hereafter, and might bring us to justice or to the galleys since others seek her wealth,” he muttered with a shiver, adding, “as for the spies, we are well rid of them and their evidence.” Then, with swift resolution, stepping to the door at the foot of the stairs, Ramiro shut it and shot the great iron bolt!

He ran from the mill; the raised path was already three feet deep in water; he could scarcely make his way along it. Ah! there lay the boat. Now he was in it, and now they were flying before the crest of a huge wave. The dam of the cutting had given altogether, and fed from sea and land at once, by snow, by rain, and by the inrush of the high tide, its waters were pouring in a measureless volume over the doomed marshes.

“Where is Elsa?” screamed Adrian.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t find her,” answered Ramiro. “Row, row for your lives! We can take her off in the morning, and the priest too, if he won back.”

At length the cold winter sun rose over the watery waste, calm enough now, for the floods were out, in places ten and fifteen feet deep. Through the mists that brooded on the face of them Ramiro and his crew groped their way back to where the Red Mill should be. It was gone!

There stood the brick walls of the bottom story rising above the flood level, but the wooden upper part had snapped before the first great wave when the bank went bodily, and afterwards been swept away by the rushing current, swept away with those within.

“What is that?” said one of the boatmen, pointing to a dark object which floated among the tangled debris of sere weeds and woodwork collected against the base of the mill.

They rowed to the thing. It was the body of Father Thomas, who must have missed his footing as he ran along the pathway, and fallen into deep water.

“Um!” said Ramiro, “‘a virgin’s curse.’ Observe, friends, how the merest coincidences may give rise to superstition. Allow me,” and, holding the dead man by one hand, he felt in his pockets with the other, till, with a smile of satisfaction, he found the purse containing the gold which he had paid him on the previous evening.

“Oh! Elsa, Elsa,” moaned Adrian.

“Comfort yourself, my son,” said Ramiro as the boat put about, leaving the dead Father Thomas bobbing up and down in the ripple; “you have indeed lost a wife whose temper gave you little prospect of happiness, but at least I have your marriage papers duly signed and witnessed, and—you are her heir.”

He did not add that he in turn was Adrian’s. But Adrian thought of it, and even in the midst of his shame and misery wondered with a shiver how long he who was Ramiro’s next of kin was likely to adorn this world.

Till he had something that was worth inheriting, perhaps.