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<h2> CHAPTER VIII </h2>
<h3> THE MARE'S STABLE </h3>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>"She's got it now," said one.</p>
<p>"Serve her right, too," answered the other, "for running after and
marrying a Spanish don."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Glancing behind her, Lysbeth saw the creature nip her nostrils with her
fingers, as though to shut out an evil smell.</p>
<p>Then she could bear it no longer, and turned upon them.</p>
<p>"You are evil slanderers," she said, and walked away swiftly, pursued by
the sound of their loud, insulting laughter.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>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; in
that, at any rate, there could be no harm.</p>
<p>She wrapped herself in a long cloak and drew its hood over her head. Then
she slipped from the house and stole like a ghost through the darkling
streets and out of the Maren or Sea Poort, where the guard let her pass
thinking that she was a country woman returning to her village. Now the
moon was rising, and by the light of it Lysbeth recognised the place. Here
was the spot where she had stood on the day of the ice carnival, when that
woman who was called Martha the Mare, and who said that she had known her
father, had spoken to her. On that water she had galloped in Montalvo's
sledge, and up yonder canal the race was run. She followed along its
banks, remembering the reedy mere some miles away spotted with islets that
were only visited from time to time by fishermen and wild-fowlers; the
great Haarlemer Meer which covered many thousands of acres of ground. That
mere she felt must look very cool and beautiful on such a night as this,
and the wind would whisper sweetly among the tall bulrushes which fringed
its banks.</p>
<p>On Lysbeth went and on; it was a long, long walk, but at last she came
there, and, oh! the place was sweet and vast and lonely. For so far as her
eye could reach in the light of the low moon there was nothing but
glimmering water broken here and there by the reed-wreathed islands. Hark!
how the frogs croaked and the bitterns boomed among the rushes. Look where
the wild ducks swam leaving behind them broad trails of silver as their
breasts broke the surface of the great mere into rippling lines.</p>
<p>There, on an island, not a bowshot from her, grew tufts of a daisy-like
marsh bloom, white flowers such as she remembered gathering when she was a
child. A desire came upon her to pluck some of these flowers, and the
water was shallow; surely she could wade to the island, or if not what did
it matter? Then she could turn to the bank again, or she might stay to
sleep a while in the water; what did it matter? She stepped from the bank—how
sweet and cool it felt to her feet! Now it was up to her knees, now it
reached her middle, and now the little wavelets beat against her breast.
But she would not go back, for there ahead of her was the island, and the
white flowers were so close that she could count them, eight upon one
bunch and twelve upon the next. Another step and the water struck her in
the face, one more and it closed above her head. She rose, and a low cry
broke from her lips.</p>
<p>Then, as in a dream, Lysbeth saw a skiff glide out from among the rushes
before her. She saw also a strange mutilated face, which she remembered
dimly, bending over the edge of the boat, and a long, brown hand stretched
out to clasp her, while a hoarse voice bade her keep still and fear
nothing.</p>
<p>After this came a sound of singing in her ears and—darkness.</p>
<p>When Lysbeth woke again she found herself lying upon the ground, or rather
upon a soft mattress of dry reeds and aromatic grasses. Looking round her
she saw that she was in a hut, reed-roofed and plastered with thick mud.
In one corner of this hut stood a fireplace with a chimney artfully built
of clay, and on the fire of turfs boiled an earthen pot. Hanging from the
roof by a string of twisted grass was a fish, fresh caught, a splendid
pike, and near to it a bunch of smoked eels. Over her also was thrown a
magnificent rug of otter skins. Noting these things, she gathered that she
must be in the hovel of some fisherman.</p>
<p>Now by degrees the past came back to Lysbeth, and she remembered her
parting with the man who called himself her husband; remembered also her
moonlight flight and how she had waded out into the waters of the great
mere to pluck the white flowers, and how, as they closed above her head a
hand had been stretched out to save her. Lysbeth remembered, and
remembering, she sighed aloud. The sound of her sighing seemed to attract
the attention of some one who was listening outside the hut; at any rate a
rough door was opened or pushed aside and a figure entered.</p>
<p>"Are you awake, lady?" asked a hoarse voice.</p>
<p>"Yes," answered Lysbeth, "but tell me, how did I come here, and who are
you?"</p>
<p>The figure stepped back so that the light from the open door fell full
upon it. "Look, Carolus van Hout's daughter and Juan Montalvo's wife;
those who have seen me once do not forget me."</p>
<p>Lysbeth sat up on the bed and stared at the gaunt, powerful form, the
deep-set grey eyes, the wide-spread nostrils, the scarred, high
cheek-bones, the teeth made prominent by some devil's work upon the lips,
and the grizzled lock of hair that hung across the forehead. In an instant
she knew her.</p>
<p>"You are Martha the Mare," she said.</p>
<p>"Yes, I am the Mare, none other, and you are in the Mare's stable. What
has he been doing to you, that Spanish dog, that you came last night to
ask the Great Water to hide you and your shame?"</p>
<p>Lysbeth made no answer; the story seemed hard to begin with this strange
woman. Then Martha went on:</p>
<p>"What did I tell you, Lysbeth van Hout? Did I not say that your blood
should warn you against the Spaniards? Well, well, you saved me from the
ice and I have saved you from the water. Ah! who was it that led me to row
round by that outer isle last night because I could not sleep? But what
does it matter; God willed it so, and here you lie in the Mare's stable.
Nay, do not answer me, first you must eat."</p>
<p>Then, going to the pot, she took it from the fire, pouring its contents
into an earthen basin, and, at the smell of them, for the first time for
days Lysbeth felt hungry. Of what that stew was compounded she never
learned, but she ate it to the last spoonful and was thankful, while
Martha, seated on the ground beside her, watched her with delight, from
time to time stretching out a long, thin hand to touch the brown hair that
hung about her shoulders.</p>
<p>"Come out and look," said Martha when her guest had done eating. And she
led her through the doorway of the hut.</p>
<p>Lysbeth gazed round her, but in truth there was not much to see. The hut
itself was hidden away in a little clump of swamp willows that grew upon a
mound in the midst of a marshy plain, broken here and there by patches of
reed and bulrushes. Walking across this plain for a hundred yards or so,
they came to more reeds, and in them a boat hidden cunningly, for here was
the water of the lake, and, not fifty paces away, what seemed to be the
shore of an island. The Mare bade her get into the boat and rowed her
across to this island, then round it to another, and thence to another and
yet another.</p>
<p>"Now tell me," she said, "upon which of them is my stable built?"</p>
<p>Lysbeth shook her head helplessly.</p>
<p>"You cannot tell, no, nor any living man; I say that no man lives who
could find it, save I myself, who know the path there by night or by day.
Look," and she pointed to the vast surface of the mere, "on this great sea
are thousands of such islets, and before they find me the Spaniards must
search them all, for here upon the lonely waters no spies or hound will
help them." Then she began to row again without even looking round, and
presently they were in the clump of reeds from which they had started.</p>
<p>"I must be going home," faltered Lysbeth.</p>
<p>"No," answered Martha, "it is too late, you have slept long. Look, the sun
is westering fast, this night you must stop with me. Oh! do not be afraid,
my fare is rough, but it is sweet and fresh and plenty; fish from the mere
as much as you will, for who can catch them better than I? And water-fowl
that I snare, yes, and their eggs; moreover, dried flesh and bacon which I
get from the mainland, for there I have friends whom sometimes I meet at
night."</p>
<p>So Lysbeth yielded, for the great peace of this lake pleased her. Oh!
after all that she had gone through it was like heaven to watch the sun
sinking towards the quiet water, to hear the wild-fowl call, to see the
fish leap and the halcyons flash by, and above all to be sure that by
nothing short of a miracle could this divine silence, broken only by
Nature's voices, be defiled with the sound of the hated accents of the man
who had ruined and betrayed her. Yes, she was weary, and a strange
unaccustomed langour crept over her; she would rest there this night also.</p>
<p>So they went back to the hut, and made ready their evening meal, and as
she fried the fish over the fire of peats, verily Lysbeth found herself
laughing like a girl again. Then they ate it with appetite, and after it
was done, Mother Martha prayed aloud; yes, and without fear, although she
knew Lysbeth to be a Catholic, read from her one treasure, a Testament,
crouching there in the light of the fire and saying:</p>
<p>"See, lady, what a place this is for a heretic to hide in. Where else may
a woman read from the Bible and fear no spy or priest?" Remembering a
certain story, Lysbeth shivered at her words.</p>
<p>"Now," said the Mare, when she had finished reading, "tell me before you
sleep, what it was that brought you into the waters of the Haarlemer Meer,
and what that Spanish man has done to you. Do not be afraid, for though I
am mad, or so they say, I can keep counsel, and between you and me are
many bonds, Carolus van Hout's daughter, some of which you know and see,
and some that you can neither know nor see, but which God will weave in
His own season."</p>
<p>Lysbeth looked at the weird countenance, distorted and made unhuman by
long torment of body and mind, and found in it something to trust; yes,
even signs of that sympathy which she so sorely needed. So she told her
all the tale from the first word of it to the last.</p>
<p>The Mare listened in silence, for no story of evil perpetrated by a
Spaniard seemed to move or astonish her, only when Lysbeth had done, she
said:</p>
<p>"Ah! child, had you but known of me, and where to find me, you should have
asked my aid."</p>
<p>"Why, mother, what could you have done?" answered Lysbeth.</p>
<p>"Done? I would have followed him by night until I found my chance in some
lonely place, and there I would have——" Then she stretched out
her bony hand to the red light of the fire, and Lysbeth saw that in it was
a knife.</p>
<p>She sank back aghast.</p>
<p>"Why are you frightened, my pretty lady?" asked the Mare. "I tell you that
I live on for only one thing—to kill Spaniards, yes, priests first
and then the others. Oh! I have a long count to pay; for every time that
he was tortured a life, for every groan he uttered at the stake a life;
yes, so many for the father and half as many for the son. Well, I shall
live to be old, I know that I shall live to be old, and the count will be
discharged, ay, to the last stiver."</p>
<p>As she spoke, the outlawed Water Wife had risen, and the flare of the fire
struck full upon her. It was an awful face that Lysbeth beheld by the
light of it, full of fierceness and energy, the face of an inspired
avenger, dread and unnatural, yet not altogether repulsive. Indeed, that
countenance was such as an imaginative artist might give to one of the
beasts in the Book of Revelation. Amazed and terrified, Lysbeth said
nothing.</p>
<p>"I frighten you, gentle one," went on the Mare, "you who, although you
have suffered, are still full of the milk of human kindness. Wait, woman,
wait till they have murdered the man you love, till your heart is like my
heart, and you also live on, not for love's sake, not for life's sake, but
to be a Sword, a Sword, a Sword in the hand of God!"</p>
<p>"Cease, I pray you," said Lysbeth in a low voice; "I am faint, I am ill."</p>
<p>Ill she was indeed, and before morning there, in that lonely hovel on the
island of the mere, a son was born to her.</p>
<p>When she was strong enough her nurse spoke:</p>
<p>"Will you keep the brat, or shall I kill it?" she asked.</p>
<p>"How can I kill my child?" said Lysbeth.</p>
<p>"It is the Spaniard's child also, and remember the curse you told me of,
your own curse uttered on this thing before ever you were married? If it
lives that curse shall cling to it, and through it you, too, shall be
accursed. Best let me kill it and have done."</p>
<p>"How can I kill my own child? Touch it not," answered Lysbeth sullenly.</p>
<p>So the black-eyed boy lived and throve.</p>
<p>Somewhat slowly, lying there in the island hut, Lysbeth won back her
strength. The Mare, or Mother Martha, as Lysbeth had now learned to call
her, tended her as few midwives would have done. Food, too, she had in
plenty, for Martha snared the fowl and caught the fish, or she made visits
to the mainland, and thence brought eggs and milk and flesh, which, so she
said, the boors of that country gave her as much as she wanted of them.
Also, to while away the hours, she would read to her out of the Testament,
and from that reading Lysbeth learnt many things which until then she had
not known. Indeed, before it was done with—Catholic though she was—she
began to wonder in what lay the wickedness of these heretics, and how it
came about that they were worthy of death and torment, since, sooth to
say, in this Book she could find no law to which their lives and doctrine
seemed to give offence.</p>
<p>Thus it happened that Martha, the fierce, half-crazy water-dweller, sowed
the seed in Lysbeth's heart that was to bear fruit in due season.</p>
<p>When three weeks had gone by and Lysbeth was on her feet again, though as
yet scarcely strong enough to travel, Martha told her that she had
business which would keep her from home a night, but what the business was
she refused to say. Accordingly on a certain afternoon, having left good
store of all things to Lysbeth's hand, the Mare departed in her skiff, nor
did she return till after midday on the morrow. Now Lysbeth talked of
leaving the island, but Martha would not suffer it, saying that if she
desired to go she must swim, and indeed when Lysbeth went to look she
found that the boat had been hidden elsewhere. So, nothing loth, she
stayed on, and in the crisp autumn air her health and beauty came back to
her, till she was once more much as she had been before the day when she
went sledging with Juan de Montalvo.</p>
<p>On a November morning, leaving her infant in the hut with Martha, who had
sworn to her on the Bible that she would not harm it, Lysbeth walked to
the extremity of the island. During the night the first sharp frost of
late autumn had fallen, making a thin film of ice upon the surface of the
lake, which melted rapidly as the sun grew high. The air too was very
clear and calm, and among the reeds, now turning golden at their tips, the
finches flew and chirped, forgetful that winter was at hand. So sweet and
peaceful was the scene that Lysbeth, also forgetful of many things,
surveyed it with a kind of rapture. She knew not why, but her heart was
happy that morning; it was as though a dark cloud had passed from her
life; as though the blue skies of peace and joy were spread about her.
Doubtless other clouds might appear upon the horizon; doubtless in their
season they would appear, but she felt that this horizon was as yet a long
way off, and meanwhile above her bent the tender sky, serene and sweet and
happy.</p>
<p>Upon the crisp grass behind her suddenly she heard a footfall, a new
footfall, not that of the long, stealthy stride of Martha, who was called
the Mare, and swung round upon her heel to meet it.</p>
<p>Oh, God! Who was this? Oh, God! there before her stood Dirk van Goorl.
Dirk, and no other than Dirk, unless she dreamed, Dirk with his kind face
wreathed in a happy smile, Dirk with his arms outstretched towards her.
Lysbeth said nothing, she could not speak, only she stood still gazing,
gazing, gazing, and always he came on, till now his arms were round her.
Then she sprang back.</p>
<p>"Do not touch me," she cried, "remember what I am and why I stay here."</p>
<p>"I know well what you are, Lysbeth," he answered slowly; "you are the
holiest and purest woman who ever walked this earth; you are an angel upon
this earth; you are the woman who gave her honour to save the man she
loved. Oh! be silent, be silent, I have heard the story; I know it every
word, and here I kneel before you, and, next to my God, I worship you,
Lysbeth, I worship you."</p>
<p>"But the child," she murmured, "it lives, and it is mine and the man's."</p>
<p>Dirk's face hardened a little, but he only answered:</p>
<p>"We must bear our burdens; you have borne yours, I must bear mine," and he
seized her hands and kissed them, yes, and the hem of her garment and
kissed it also.</p>
<p>So these two plighted their troth.</p>
<p>Afterwards Lysbeth heard all the story. Montalvo had been put upon his
trial, and, as it chanced, things went hard with him. Among his judges one
was a great Netherlander lord, who desired to uphold the rights of his
countrymen; one was a high ecclesiastic, who was furious because of the
fraud that had been played upon the Church, which had been trapped into
celebrating a bigamous marriage; and a third was a Spanish grandee, who,
as it happened, knew the family of the first wife who had been deserted.</p>
<p>Therefore, for the luckless Montalvo, when the case had been proved to the
hilt against him by the evidence of the priest who brought the letter, of
the wife's letters, and of the truculent Black Meg, who now found an
opportunity of paying back "hot water for cold," there was little mercy.
His character was bad, and it was said, moreover, that because of his
cruelties and the shame she had suffered at his hands, Lysbeth van Hout
had committed suicide. At least, this was certain, that she was seen
running at night towards the Haarlemer Meer, and that after this, search
as her friends would, nothing more could be heard of her.</p>
<p>So, that an example might be made, although he writhed and fenced his
best, the noble captain, Count Juan de Montalvo, was sent to serve for
fourteen years in the galleys as a common slave. And there, for the while,
was an end of him.</p>
<p>There also was an end of the strange and tragic courtship of Dirk van
Goorl and Lysbeth van Hout.</p>
<p>Six months afterwards they were married, and by Dirk's wish took the
child, who was christened Adrian, to live with them. A few months later
Lysbeth entered the community of the New Religion, and less than two years
after her marriage a son was born to her, the hero of this story, who was
named Foy.</p>
<p>As it happened, she bore no other children.</p>
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