Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖
- Author: H. Rider Haggard
Book online «Lysbeth, a Tale of the Dutch by H. Rider Haggard (reading in the dark .TXT) 📖». Author H. Rider Haggard
“I see. And did you get the evidence?”
“Well, I hid in the Heer Dirk’s bedroom one night, and looking through a door saw him and another young man, whom I do not know, reading the Bible, and praying together.”
“Indeed; what a terrible risk you must have run, for had those young men, or either of them, chanced to catch you, it is quite certain that you would not have left that room alive. You know these heretics think that they are justified in killing a spy at sight, and, upon my word, I do not blame them. In fact, my good woman,” and he leaned forward and looked her straight in the eyes, “were I in the same position I would have knocked you on the head as readily as though you had been a rat.”
Black Meg shrank back, and turned a little blue about the lips.
“Of course, Mynheer, of course, it is a rough game, and the poor agents of God must take their risks. Not that the other young man had any cause to fear. I wasn’t paid to watch him, and—as I have said—I neither know nor care who he is.”
“Well, who can say, that may be fortunate for you, especially if he should ever come to know or to care who you are. But it is no affair of ours, is it? Now, give me those letters. What, do you want your money first? Very well,” and, rising, Brant went to a cupboard and produced a small steel box, which he unlocked; and, having taken from it the appointed sum, locked it again. “There you are,” he said; “oh, you needn’t stare at the cupboard; the box won’t live there after to-day, or anywhere in this house. By the way, I understand that Montalvo never paid you.”
“Not a stiver,” she answered with a sudden access of rage; “the low thief, he promised to pay me after his marriage, but instead of rewarding her who put him in that warm nest, I tell you that already he has squandered every florin of the noble lady’s money in gambling and satisfying such debts as he was obliged to, so that to-day I believe that she is almost a beggar.”
“I see,” said Brant, “and now good morning, and look you, if we should chance to meet in the town, you will understand that I do not know you.”
“I understand, Mynheer,” said Black Meg with a grin and vanished.
When she had gone Brant rose and opened the window. “Bah!” he said, “the air is poisoned. But I think I frightened her, I think that I have nothing to fear. Yet who can tell? My God! she saw me reading the Bible, and Montalvo knows it! Well, it is some time ago now, and I must take my chance.”
Ah! who could tell indeed?
Then, taking the miniatures and documents with him, Brant started to call upon his friend and co-religionist, the Heer Pieter van de Werff, Dirk van Goorl’s friend, and Lysbeth’s cousin, a young man for whose judgment and abilities he had a great respect. As a result of this visit, these two gentlemen left that afternoon for Brussels, the seat of Government, where they had very influential friends.
It will be sufficient to tell the upshot of their visit. Just at that time the Government of the Netherlands wished for its own reasons to stand well with the citizen class, and when those in authority learned of the dreadful fraud that had been played off upon a lady of note who was known to be a good Catholic, for the sole object of robbing her of her fortune, there was indignation in high places. Indeed, an order was issued, signed by a hand which could not be resisted—so deeply was one woman moved by the tale of another’s wrong—that the Count Montalvo should be seized and put upon his trial, just as though he were any common Netherland malefactor. Moreover, since he was a man with many enemies, no one was found to stand between him and the Royal decree.
Three days later Montalvo made an announcement to Lysbeth. For a wonder he was supping at home alone with his wife, whose presence he had commanded. She obeyed and attended, sitting at the further end of the table, whence she rose from time to time to wait upon him with her own hands. Watching him the while with her quiet eyes, she noticed that he was ill at ease.
“Cannot you speak?” he asked at last and savagely. “Do you think it is pleasant for a man to sit opposite a woman who looks like a corpse in her coffin till he wishes she were one?”
“So do I,” answered Lysbeth, and again there was silence.
Presently she broke it. “What do you want?” she asked. “More money?”
“Of course I want money,” he answered furiously.
“Then there is none; everything has gone, and the notary tells me that no one will advance another stiver on the house. All my jewellery is sold also.”
He glanced at her hand. “You have still that ring,” he said.
She looked at it. It was a hoop of gold set with emeralds of considerable value which her husband had given her before marriage and always insisted upon her wearing. In fact, it had been bought with the money which he borrowed from Dirk van Goorl.
“Take it,” she said, smiling for the first time, and drawing off the ring she passed it over to him. He turned his head aside as he stretched his hand towards the trinket lest his face should betray the shame which even he must feel.
“If your child should be a son,” he muttered, “tell him that his father had nothing but a piece of advice to leave him; that he should never touch a dice-box.”
“Are you going away then?” she asked.
“For a week or two I must. I have been warned that a difficulty has arisen, about which I need not trouble you. Doubtless you will hear of it soon enough, and though it is not true, I must leave Leyden until the thing blows over. In fact I am going now.”
“You are about to desert me,” she answered; “having got all my money, I say that you are going to desert me who am—thus! I see it in your face.”
Montalvo turned away and pretended not to hear.
“Well, thank God for it,” Lysbeth added, “only I wish that you could take your memory and everything else of yours with you.”
As these bitter words passed her lips the door opened, and there entered one of his own subalterns, followed by four soldiers and a man in a lawyer’s robe.
“What is this?” asked Montalvo furiously.
The subaltern saluted as he entered:
“My captain, forgive me, but I act under orders, and they are to arrest you alive, or,” he added significantly, “dead.”
“Upon what charge?” asked Montalvo.
“Here, notary, you had best read the charge,” said the subaltern, “but perhaps the lady would like to retire first,” he added awkwardly.
“No,” answered Lysbeth, “it might concern me.”
“Alas! Señora, I fear it does,” put in the notary. Then he began to read the document, which was long and legal. But she was quick to understand. Before ever it was done Lysbeth knew that she was not the lawful wife of Count Juan de Montalvo, and that he was to be put upon his trial for his betrayal of her and the trick he had played the Church. So she was free—free, and overcome by that thought she staggered, fell, and swooned away.
When her eyes opened again, Montalvo, officer, notary, and soldiers, all had vanished.
THE MARE’S STABLE
When Lysbeth’s reason returned to her in that empty room, her first sense was one of wild exultation. She was free, she was not Montalvo’s wife, never again could she be obliged to see him, never again could she be forced to endure the contamination of his touch—that was her thought. She was sure that the story was true; were it not true who could have moved the authorities to take action against him? Moreover, now that she had the key, a thousand things were explained, trivial enough in themselves, each of them, but in their sum amounting to proof positive of his guilt. Had he not spoken of some entanglement in Spain and of children? Had he not in his sleep—but it was needless to remember all these things. She was free! She was free! and there on the table still lay the symbol of her bondage, the emerald ring that was to give him the means of flight, a flight from this charge which he knew was hanging over him. She took it up, dashed it to the ground and stamped upon it. Next she fell upon her knees, praising and blessing God, and then, worn out, crept away to rest.
The morning came, the still and beautiful autumn morning, but now all her exultation had left her, and Lysbeth was depressed and heavy hearted. She rose and assisted the one servant who remained in the house to prepare their breakfast, taking no heed of the sidelong glances that the woman cast at her. Afterwards she went to the market to spend some of her last florins in necessaries. Here and in the streets she became aware that she was the object of remark, for people nudged each other and stared at her. Moreover, as she hurried home appalled, her quick ear caught the conversation of two coarse women while they walked behind her.
“She’s got it now,” said one.
“Serve her right, too,” answered the other, “for running after and marrying a Spanish don.”
“Marrying?” broke in the first, “it was the best that she could do. She couldn’t stop to ask questions. Some corpses must be buried quickly.”
Glancing behind her, Lysbeth saw the creature nip her nostrils with her fingers, as though to shut out an evil smell.
Then she could bear it no longer, and turned upon them.
“You are evil slanderers,” she said, and walked away swiftly, pursued by the sound of their loud, insulting laughter.
At the house she was told that two men were waiting to see her. They proved to be creditors clamouring for large sums of money, which she could not pay. Lysbeth told them that she knew nothing of the matter. Thereupon they showed her her own writing at the foot of deeds, and she remembered that she had signed more things than she chose to keep count of, everything indeed that the man who called himself her husband put before her, if only to win an hour of blessed freedom from his presence. At length the duns went away vowing that they would have their money if they dragged the bed from under her.
After that came loneliness and silence. No friend appeared to cheer her. Indeed, she had no friends left, for by her husband’s command she had broken off her acquaintance with all who after the strange circumstances connected with her marriage were still inclined to know her. He said that he would have no chattering Dutch vrouws about the house, and they said and believed that the Countess de Montalvo had become too proud to associate with those of her own class and people.
Midday came and she could eat no food; indeed, she had touched none for twenty-four hours; her gorge rose against it, although in her state she needed food. Now the shame of her position began to come home to Lysbeth. She was a wife and no wife; soon she must bear the burden of motherhood, and oh! what would that child be? And what should she be, its mother? What, too, would Dirk think of her? Dirk, for whom she had done and suffered all these things. Through the long afternoon hours she lay upon her bed thinking such thoughts as these till at length her mind gave and Lysbeth grew light-headed. Her brain became a chaos, a perfect hell of distorted imaginations.
Then out of its turmoil and confusion rose a vision and a desire; a vision of peace and a desire for rest. But what rest was there for her except the rest of death? Well, why not die? God would forgive her, the Mother of God would plead for her who was shamed and broken-hearted and unfit to live. Even Dirk would think kindly of her when she was dead, though, doubtless, now if he met her he would cover his eyes with his hand. She was burning hot and she was thirsty. How cool the water would be on this fevered night. What could be better than to slip into it and slowly let it close above her poor aching head? She would go out and look at the water;
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