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The Burgomaster's Wife — Complete

by Georg Ebers · English · Gutenberg #5583 · 569,085 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Burgomaster's Wife — Complete

Author: Georg Ebers

Translator: Mary J. Safford


        
Release date: November 15, 2004 [eBook #5583]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5583

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE — COMPLETE ***



Produced by David Widger





THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE, Complete

By Georg Ebers


Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford




BARONESS SOPHIE VON BRANDENSTEIN, nee EBERS.

My reason for dedicating a book, and particularly this book, to you, the
only sister of my dead father, needs no word of explanation between us.
From early childhood you have been a dear and faithful friend to me,
and certainly have not forgotten how industriously I labored, while your
guest seventeen years ago, in arranging the material which constitutes
the foundation of the “Burgomaster’s Wife.” You then took a friendly
interest in many a note of facts, that had seemed to me extraordinary,
admirable, or amusing, and when the claims of an arduous profession
prevented me from pursuing my favorite occupation of studying the
history of Holland, my mother’s home, in the old way, never wearied of
reminding me of the fallow material, that had previously awakened your
sympathy.

At last I have been permitted to give the matter so long laid aside its
just dues. A beautiful portion of Holland’s glorious history affords the
espalier, around which the tendrils of my narrative entwine. You have
watched them grow, and therefore will view them kindly and indulgently.

In love and friendship,

               Ever the same,

                       GEORG EBERS

Leipsic, Oct. 30th, 1881.




THE BURGOMASTER’S WIFE.




CHAPTER I.

In the year 1574 A. D. spring made its joyous entry into the Netherlands
at an unusually early date.

The sky was blue, gnats sported in the sunshine, white butterflies
alighted on the newly-opened yellow flowers, and beside one of the
numerous ditches intersecting the wide plain stood a stork, snapping at
a fine frog; the poor fellow soon writhed in its enemy’s red beak. One
gulp--the merry jumper vanished, and its murderer, flapping its wings,
soared high into the air. On flew the bird over gardens filled with
blossoming fruit-trees, trimly laid-out flower-beds, and gaily-painted
arbors, across the frowning circlet of walls and towers that girdled
the city, over narrow houses with high, pointed gables, and neat streets
bordered with elm, poplar, linden and willow-trees, decked with the
first green leaves of spring. At last it alighted on a lofty gable-roof,
on whose ridge was its firmly-fastened nest. After generously giving up
its prey to the little wife brooding over the eggs, it stood on one
leg and gazed thoughtfully down upon the city, whose shining red tiles
gleamed spick and span from the green velvet carpet of the meadows. The
bird had known beautiful Leyden, the gem of Holland, for many a year,
and was familiar with all the branches of the Rhine that divided the
stately city into numerous islands, and over which arched as many stone
bridges as there are days in five months of the year; but surely many
changes had occurred here since the stork’s last departure for the
south.

Where were the citizens’ gay summer-houses and orchards, where the
wooden frames on which the weavers used to stretch their dark and
colored cloths?

Whatever plant or work of human hands had risen, outside the city
walls and towers to the height of a man’s breast, thus interrupting the
uniformity of the plain, had vanished from the earth, and beyond, on
the bird’s best hunting-grounds, brownish spots sown with black circles
appeared among the green of the meadows.

Late in October of the preceding year, just after the storks left the
country, a Spanish army had encamped here, and a few hours before the
return of the winged wanderers in the first opening days of spring, the
besiegers retired without having accomplished their purpose.

Barren spots amid the luxuriant growth of vegetation marked the places
where they had pitched their tents, the black cinders of the burnt coals
their camp-fires.

The sorely-threatened inhabitants of the rescued city, with thankful
hearts, uttered sighs of relief. The industrious, volatile populace
had speedily forgotten the sufferings endured, for early spring is so
beautiful, and never does a rescued life seem so delicious as when we
are surrounded by the joys of spring.

A new and happier time appeared to have dawned, not only for Nature but
for human beings. The troops quartered in the besieged city, which had
the day before committed many an annoyance, had been dismissed with song
and music. The carpenter’s axe flashed in the spring sunlight before the
red walls, towers and gates, and cut sharply into the beams from
which new scaffolds and frames were to be erected; noble cattle grazed
peacefully undisturbed around the city, whose desolated gardens were
being dug, sowed and planted afresh. In the streets and houses a
thousand hands, which but a short time before had guided spears and
arquebuses on the walls and towers, were busy at useful work, and old
people sat quietly before their doors to let the warm spring sun shine
on their backs.

Few discontented faces were to be seen in Leyden on this eighteenth of
April. True, there was no lack of impatient ones, and whoever wanted
to seek them need only go to the principal school, where noon was
approaching and many boys gazed far more eagerly through the open
windows of the school-room, than at the teacher’s lips.

But in that part of the spacious hall where the older lads received
instruction, no restlessness prevailed. True, the spring sun shone on
their books and exercises too, the spring called them into the open
air, but even more powerful than its alluring voice seemed the influence
exerted on their young minds by what they were now hearing.

Forty sparkling eyes were turned towards the bearded man, who addressed
them in his deep voice. Even wild Jan Mulder had dropped the knife with
which he had begun to cut on his desk a well-executed figure of a ham,
and was listening attentively.

The noon bell now rang from the neighboring church, and soon after was
heard from the tower of the town-hall, the little boys noisily left the
room, but--strange-=the patience of the older ones still held out; they
were surely hearing things that did not exactly belong to their lessons.

The man who stood before them was no teacher in the school, but the
city clerk, Van Hout, who, to-day filled the place of his sick friend,
Verstroot, master of arts and preacher. During the ringing of the bells
he had closed the book, and now said:

“‘Suspendo lectionem.’ Jan Mulder, how would you translate my
‘suspendere’?”

“Hang,” replied the boy.

“Hang!” laughed Van Hout. “You might be hung from a hook perhaps, but
where should we hang a lesson? Adrian Van der Werff.”

The lad called rose quickly, saying:

“‘Suspendere lectionen’ means to break off the lesson.”

“Very well; and if we wanted to hang up Jan Mulder, what should we say?”

“Patibulare--ad patibulum!” cried the scholars. Van Hout, who had just
been smiling, grew very grave. Drawing a long breath, he said:

“Patibulo is a bad Latin word, and your fathers, who formerly sat here,
understood its meaning far less thoroughly than you. Now, every child in
the Netherlands knows it, Alva has impressed it on our minds. More than
eighteen thousand worthy citizens have come to the gallows through his
‘ad patibulum.’”

With these words he pulled his short black doublet through his girdle,
advanced nearer the first desk, and bending his muscular body forward,
said with constantly increasing emotion:

“‘This shall be enough for to-day, boys. It will do no great harm, if
you afterwards forget the names earned here. But always remember
one thing: your country first of all. Leonidas and his three hundred
Spartans did not die in vain, so long as there are men ready to follow
their example. Your turn will come too. It is not my business to boast,
but truth is truth. We Hollanders have furnished fifty times three
hundred men for the freedom of our native soil. In such stormy times
there are steadfast men; even boys have shown themselves great. Ulrich
yonder, at your head, can bear his nickname of Lowing with honor.
‘Hither Persians--hither Greeks!’ was said in ancient times, but we cry:
‘Hither Netherlands, hither Spain!’ And indeed, the proud Darius never
ravaged Greece as King Philip has devastated Holland. Ay, my lads,
many flowers bloom in the breasts of men. Among them is hatred of the
poisonous hemlock. Spain has sowed it in our gardens. I feel it
growing within me, and you too feel and ought to feel it. But don’t
misunderstand me! ‘Hither Spain--hither Netherlands!’ is the cry, and
not: ‘Hither Catholics and hither Protestants.’ Every faith may be
right in the Lord’s eyes, if only the man strives earnestly to walk in
Christ’s ways. At the throne of Heaven, it will not be asked: Are you
Papist, Calvinist, or Lutheran? but: What were your intentions and acts?
Respect every man’s belief; but despise him who makes common cause with
the tyrant against the liberty of our native land. Now pray silently,
then you may go home.”

The scholars rose; Van Hout wiped the perspiration from his high
forehead, and while the boys were collecting books, pencils, and pens,
said slowly, as if apologizing to himself for the words already uttered:

“What I have told you perhaps does not belong to the school-room; but,
my lads, this battle is still far from being ended, and though you must
occupy the school-benches for a while, you are the future soldiers.
Lowing, remain behind, I have something to say to you.”

He slowly turned his back to the boys, who rushed out of doors. In a
corner of the yard of St. Peter’s church, which was behind the building
and entered by few of the passers-by, they stood still, and from amid
the wild confusion of exclamations arose a sort of consultation,
to which the organ-notes echoing from the church formed a strange
accompaniment.

They were trying to decide upon the game to be played in the afternoon.

It was a matter of course, after what Van Hout had said, that there
should be a battle; it had not even been proposed by anybody, but the
discussion that now arose proceeded from the supposition.

It was soon decided that patriots and Spaniards, not Greeks and
Persians, were to appear in the lists against each other; but when the
burgomaster’s son, Adrian Van der Werff, a lad of fourteen, proposed to
form the two parties, and in the imperious way peculiar to him attempted
to make Paul Van Swieten and Claus Dirkson Spaniards, he encountered
violent opposition, and the troublesome circumstance was discovered that
no one was willing to represent a foreign soldier.

Each boy wanted to make somebody else a Castilian, and fight himself
under the banner of the Netherlands. But friends and foes are necessary
for a war, and Holland’s heroic courage required Spaniards to prove
it. The youngsters grew excited, the cheeks of the disputants began
to flush, here and there clenched fists were raised, and everything
indicated that a horrible civil war would precede the battle to be given
the foes of the country.

In truth, these lively boys were ill-suited to play the part of King
Philip’s gloomy, stiff-necked soldiers. Amid the many fair heads, few
lads were seen with brown locks, and only one with black hair and dark
eyes. This was Adam Baersdorp, whose father, like Van der Werff’s,
was one of the leaders of the citizens. When he too refused to act a
Spaniard, one of the boys exclaimed:

“You won’t? Yet my father says your father is half a Glipper,--[The
name given in Holland to those who sympathized with Spain]--and a whole
Papist to boot.”

At these words young Baersdorp threw his books on the ground, and was
rushing with upraised fist upon his enemy--but Adrian Van der Werff
hastily interposed, crying:

“For shame, Cornelius.--I’ll stop the mouth of anybody who utters such
an insult again. Catholics are Christians, as well as we. You heard it
from Van Hout, and my father says so too. Will you be a Spaniard, Adam,
yes or no?”

“No!” cried the latter firmly. “And if anybody else--”

“You can quarrel afterward,” said Adrian Van der Werff, interrupting his
excited companions, then good-naturedly picking up the books Baersdorp
had flung down, and handing them to him, continued resolutely, “I’ll be
a Spaniard to-day. Who else?”

“I, I, I too, for aught I care,” shouted several of the scholars, and
the forming of the two parties would have been carried on in the best
order to the end, if the boys’ attention had not been diverted by a
fresh incident.

A young gentleman, followed by a black servant, came up the street
directly towards them. He too was a Netherlander, but had little in
common with the school-boys except his age, a red and white complexion,
fair hair, and clear blue eyes, eyes that looked arrogantly out upon
the world. Every step showed that he considered himself an important
personage, and the gaily-costumed negro, who carried a few recently
purchased articles behind him, imitated this bearing in a most comical
way. The negro’s head was held still farther back than the young
noble’s, whose stiff Spanish ruff prevented him from moving his handsome
head as freely as other mortals.

“That ape, Wibisma,” said one of the school-boys, pointing to the
approaching nobleman.

All eyes turned towards him, scornfully scanning his little velvet hat
decked with a long plume, the quilted red satin garment padded in the
breast and sleeves, the huge puffs of his short brown breeches, and the
brilliant scarlet silk stockings that closely fitted his well-formed
limbs.

“The ape,” repeated Paul Van Swieten. “He wants to be a cardinal, that’s
why he wears so much red.”

“And looks as Spanish as if he came straight from Madrid,” cried another
lad, while a third added:

“The Wibismas certainly were not to be found here, so long as bread was
short with us.”

The Wibismas are all Glippers.

“And he struts about on week-days, dressed in velvet and silk,” said
Adrian. “Just look at the black boy the red-legged stork has brought
with him to Leyden.”

The scholars burst into a loud laugh, and as soon as the youth had
reached them, Paul Van Swieten snarled in a nasal tone:

“How did deserting suit you? How are affairs in Spain, master Glipper?”

The young noble raised his head still higher, the negro did the same,
and both walked quietly on, even when Adrian shouted in his ear:

“Little Glipper, tell me, for how many pieces of silver did Judas sell
the Saviour?”

Young Matanesse Van Wibisma made an indignant gesture, but controlled
himself until Jan Mulder stepped in front of him, holding his little
cloth cap, into which he had thrust a hen’s feather, under his chin like
a beggar, and saying humbly:

“Give me a little shrove-money for our tom-cat, Sir Grandee; he stole a
leg of veal from the butcher yesterday.”

“Out of my way!” said the youth in a haughty, resolute tone, trying to
push Mulder aside with the back of his hand.

“Hands off, Glipper!” cried the school-boys, raising their clenched
hands threateningly.

“Then let me alone,” replied Wibisma, “I want no quarrel, least of all
with you.”

“Why not with us?” asked Adrian Van der Werff, irritated by the
supercilious, arrogant tone of the last words.

The youth shrugged his shoulders, but Adrian cried: “Because you like
your Spanish costume better than our doublets of Leyden cloth.”

Here he paused, for Jan Mulder stole behind Wibisma, struck his hat down
on his head with a book, and while Nicolas Van Wibisma was trying to
free his eyes from the covering that shaded them, exclaimed:

“There, Sir Grandee, now the little hat sits firm! You can keep it on,
even before the king.”

The negro could not go to his master’s assistance, for his arms were
filled with parcels, but the young noble did not call him, knowing
how cowardly his black servant was, and feeling strong enough to help
himself.

A costly clasp, which he had just received as a gift on his seventeenth
birthday, confined the plume in his hat; but without a thought he flung
it aside, stretched out his arms as if for a wrestling-match, and with
florid cheeks, asked in a loud, resolute tone: “Who did that?”

Jan Mulder had hastily retreated among his companions, and instead of
coming forward and giving his name, called:

“Look for the hat-fuller, Glipper! We’ll play blindman’s buff.”

The youth, frantic with rage, repeated his question. When, instead of
any other answer, the boys entered into Jan Mulder’s jest, shouting
gaily: “Yes, play blind-man’s buff! Look for the hat-fuller. Come,
little Glipper, begin.” Nicolas could contain himself no longer, but
shouted furiously to the laughing throng:

“Cowardly rabble!”

Scarcely had the words been uttered, when Paul Van Swieten raised his
grammar, bound in hog-skin, and hurled it at Wibisma’s breast.

Other books followed, amid loud outcries, striking him on the legs and
shoulders. Bewildered, he shielded his face with his hands and retreated
to the church-yard wall, where he stood still and prepared to rush upon
his foes.

The stiff, fashionable high Spanish ruff no longer confined his handsome
head with its floating golden locks. Freely and boldly he looked his
enemies in the face, stretched the young limbs hardened by many a
knightly exercise, and with a true Netherland oath sprang upon Adrian
Van der Werff, who stood nearest.

After a short struggle, the burgomaster’s son, inferior in strength and
age to his opponent, lay extended on the ground; but the other lads, who
had not ceased shouting, “Glipper, Glipper,” seized the young noble, who
was kneeling on his vanquished foe.

Nicolas struggled bravely, but his enemies’ superior power was too
great.

Frantic with fury, wild with rage and shame, he snatched the dagger from
his belt.

The boys now raised a frightful yell, and two of them rushed upon
Nicolas to wrest the weapon from him. This was quickly accomplished; the
dagger flew on the pavement, but Van Swieten sprang back with a low cry,
for the sharp blade had struck his arm, and the bright blood streamed on
the ground.

For several minutes the shouts of the lads and the piteous cries of the
black page drowned the beautiful melody of the organ, pouring from
the windows of the church. Suddenly the music ceased; instead of the
intricate harmony the slowly-dying note of a single pipe was heard, and
a young man rushed out of the door of the sacristy of the House of God.
He quickly perceived the cause of the wild uproar that had interrupted
his practising, and a smile flitted over the handsome face which, framed
by a closely-cut beard, had just looked startled enough, though the
reproving words and pushes with which he separated the enraged lads were
earnest enough, and by no means failed to produce their effect.

The boys knew the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, and offered no
resistance, for they liked him, and his dozen years of seniority gave
him an undisputed authority among them. Not a hand was again raised
against Wibisma, but the boys, all shouting and talking together,
crowded around the organist to accuse Nicolas and defend themselves.

Paul Van Swieten’s wound was slight. He stood outside the circle of
his companions, supporting the injured left arm with his right hand. He
frequently blew upon the burning spot in his flesh, over which a bit
of cloth was wrapped, but curiosity concerning the result of this
entertaining brawl was stronger than the wish to have it bandaged and
healed.

As the peace-maker’s work was already drawing to a close, the wounded
lad, pointing with his sound hand in the direction of the school,
suddenly called warningly:

“There comes Herr von Nordwyk. Let the Glipper go, or there will be
trouble.”

Paul Van Swieten again clasped his wounded arm with his right hand and
ran swiftly around the church. Several other boys followed, but the
new-comer of whom they were afraid, a man scarcely thirty years old, had
legs of considerable length, and knew how to use them bravely.

“Stop, boys!” he shouted in an echoing voice of command. “Stop! What has
Happened here?”

Every one in Leyden respected the learned and brave young nobleman, so
all the lads who had not instantly obeyed Van Swieten’s warning shout,
stood still until Herr von Nordwyk reached them.

A strange, eager light sparkled in this man’s clever eyes, and a subtle
smile hovered around his moustached lip, as he called to the musician:

“What has happened here, Meister Wilhelm? Didn’t the clamor of Minerva’s
apprentices harmonize with your organ-playing, or did--but by all the
colors of Iris, that’s surely Nico Matanesse, young Wibisma! And how he
looks! Brawling in the shadow of the church--and you here too, Adrian,
and you, Meister Wilhelm?”

“I separated them,” replied the other quietly, smoothing his rumpled
cuffs.

“With perfect calmness, but impressively--like your organ-music,” said
the commander, laughing.

“Who began the fight? You, young sir? or the others?”

Nicolas, in his excitement, shame, and indignation, could find no
coherent words, but Adrian came forward saying: “We wrestled together.
Don’t be too much vexed with us, Herr Janus.”

Nicolas cast a friendly glance at his foe.

Herr von Nordwyk, Jan Van der Does, or as a learned man he preferred
to call himself, Janus Dousa, was by no means satisfied with this
information, but exclaimed:

“Patience, patience! You look suspicious enough, Meister Adrian; come
here and tell me, ‘atrekeos,’ according to the truth, what has been
going on.”

The boy obeyed the command and told his story honestly, without
concealing or palliating anything that had occurred.

“Hm,” said Dousa, after the lad had finished his report. “A difficult
case. No one is to be acquitted. Your cause would be the better one, had
it not been for the knife, my fine young nobleman, but you, Adrian,
and you, you chubby-cheeked rascals, who--There comes the rector--If
he catches you, you’ll certainly see nothing but four walls the rest of
this beautiful day. I should be sorry for that.”

The chubby-cheeked rascals, and Adrian also, understood this hint, and
without stopping to take leave scampered around the corner of the church
like a flock of doves pursued by a hawk.

As soon as they had vanished, the commander approached young Nicolas,
saying:

“Vexatious business! What was right to them is just to you. Go to your
home. Are you visiting your aunt?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the young noble. “Is your father in the city
too?” Nicolas was silent.

“He doesn’t wish to be seen?”

Nicolas nodded assent, and Dousa continued:

“Leyden stands open to every Netherlander, even to you. To be sure, if
you go about like King Philip’s page, and show contempt to your equals,
you must endure the consequences yourself. There lies the dagger, my
young friend, and there is your hat. Pick them up, and remember that
such a weapon is no toy. Many a man has spoiled his whole life, by
thoughtlessly using one a single moment. The superior numbers that
pressed upon you may excuse you. But how will you get to your aunt’s
house in that tattered doublet?”

“My cloak is in the church,” said the musician, “I’ll give it to the
young gentleman.”

“Bravo, Meister Wilhelm!” replied Dousa. “Wait here, my little master,
and then go home. I wish the time, when your father would value my
greeting, might come again. Do you know why it is no longer pleasant to
him?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then I’ll tell you. Because he is fond of Spain, and I cling to the
Netherlands.”

“We are Netherlanders as well as you,” replied Nicolas with glowing
cheeks.

“Scarcely,” answered Dousa calmly, putting his hand up to his thin chin,
and intending to add a kinder word to the sharp one, when the youth
vehemently exclaimed:

“Take back that ‘scarcely,’ Herr von Nordwyk.” Dousa gazed at the bold
lad in surprise, and again an expression of amusement hovered about his
lips. Then he said kindly:

“I like you, Herr Nicolas; and shall rejoice if you wish to become a
true Hollander. There comes Meister Wilhelm with his cloak. Give me your
hand. No, not this one, the other.”

Nicolas hesitated, but Janus grasped the boy’s right hand in both of
his, bent his tall figure to the latter’s ear, and said in so low a tone
that the musician could not understand:

“Ere we part, take with you this word of counsel from one who means
kindly. Chains, even golden ones, drag us down, but liberty gives wings.
You shine in the glittering splendor, but we strike the Spanish chains
with the sword, and I devote myself to our work. Remember these words,
and if you choose repeat them to your father.”

Janus Dousa turned his back on the boy, waved a farewell to the
musician, and went away.




CHAPTER II.

Young Adrian hurried down the Werffsteg, which had given his family its
name. He heeded neither the lindens on both sides, amid whose tops the
first tiny green leaves were forcing their way out of the pointed buds,
nor the birds that flew hither and thither among the hospitable boughs
of the stately trees, building their nests and twittering to each other,
for he had no thought in his mind except to reach home as quickly as
possible.

Beyond the bridge spanning the Achtergracht, he paused irresolutely
before a large building.

The knocker hung on the central door, but he did not venture to lift
it and let it fall on the shining plate beneath, for he could expect no
pleasant reception from his family.

His doublet had fared ill during his struggle with his stronger enemy.
The torn neck-ruffles had been removed from their proper place and
thrust into his pocket, and the new violet stocking on his right leg,
luckless thing, had been so frayed by rubbing on the pavement, that
a large yawning rent showed far more of Adrian’s white knee than was
agreeable to him.

The peacock feather in his little velvet cap could easily be replaced,
but the doublet was torn, not ripped, and the stocking scarcely capable
of being mended. The boy was sincerely sorry, for his father had bade
him take good care of the stuff to save money; during these times there
were hard shifts in the big house, which with its three doors, triple
gables adorned with beautifully-arched volutes, and six windows in the
upper and lower stories, fronted the Werffsteg in a very proud, stately
guise.

The burgomaster’s office did not bring in a large income, and Adrian’s
grandfather’s trade of preparing chamois leather, as well as the
business in skins, was falling off; his father had other matters in his
head, matters that claimed not only his intellect, strength and time,
but also every superfluous farthing.

Adrian had nothing pleasant to expect at home--certainly not from his
father, far less from his aunt Barbara. Yet the boy dreaded the anger of
these two far less, than a single disapproving glance from the eyes of
the young wife, whom he had called “mother” scarcely a twelve month, and
who was only six years his senior.

She never said an unkind word to him, but his defiance and wildness
melted before her beauty, her quiet, aristocratic manner. He scarcely
knew himself whether he loved her or not, but she appeared like the good
fairy of whom the fairy tales spoke, and it often seemed as if she were
far too delicate, dainty and charming for her simple, unpretending home.
To see her smile rendered the boy happy, and when she looked sad--a
thing that often happened-it made his heart ache. Merciful Heavens! She
certainly could not receive him kindly when she saw his doublet, the
ruffles thrust into his pocket, and his unlucky stockings.

And then!

There were the bells ringing again!

The dinner hour had long since passed, and his father waited for no
one. Whoever came too late must go without, unless Aunt Barbara took
compassion on him in the kitchen.

But what was the use of pondering and hesitating? Adrian summoned up
all his courage, clenched his teeth, clasped his right hand still closer
around the torn ruffles in his pocket, and struck the knocker loudly on
the steel plate beneath.

Trautchen, the old maid-servant, opened the door, and in the spacious,
dusky entrance-hall, where the bales of leather were packed closely
together, did not notice the dilapidation of his outer man.

He hurried swiftly up the stairs.

The dining-room door was open, and--marvellous--the table was still
untouched, his father must have remained at the town-hall longer than
usual.

Adrian rushed with long leaps to his little attic room, dressed himself
neatly, and entered the presence of his family before the master of the
house had asked the blessing.

The doublet and stocking could be confided to the hands of Aunt Barbara
or Trautchen, at some opportune hour.

Adrian sturdily attacked the smoking dishes; but his heart soon grew
heavy, for his father did not utter a word, and gazed into vacancy as
gravely and anxiously as at the time when misery entered the beleaguered
city.

The boy’s young step-mother sat opposite her husband, and often glanced
at Peter Van der Werff’s grave face to win a loving glance from him.

Whenever she did so in vain, she pushed her soft, golden hair back from
her forehead, raised her beautiful head higher, or bit her lips and
gazed silently into her plate.

In reply to Aunt Barbara’s questions: “What happened at the council? Has
the money for the new bell been collected? Will Jacob Van Sloten rent
you the meadow?” he made curt, evasive replies.

The steadfast man, who sat so silently with frowning brow among his
family, sometimes attacking the viands on his plate, then leaving them
untouched, did not look like one who yields to idle whims.

All present, even the men and maid-servants, were still devoting
themselves to the food, when the master of the house rose, and pressing
both hands over the back of his head, which was very prominently
developed, exclaimed groaning:

“I can hold out no longer. Do you give thanks, Maria. Go to the
town-hall, Janche, and ask if no messenger has yet arrived.”

The man-servant wiped his mouth and instantly obeyed. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered Frieselander, but only reached to his master’s
forehead.

Peter Van der Werff, without any form of salutation, turned his back on
his family, opened the door leading into his study, and after
crossing the threshold, closed it with a bang, approached the big oak
writing-desk, on which papers and letters lay piled in heaps, secured
by rough leaden weights, and began to rummage among the newly-arrived
documents. For fifteen minutes he vainly strove to fix the necessary
attention upon his task, then grasped his study-chair to rest his folded
arms on the high, perforated back, adorned with simple carving, and
gazed thoughtfully at the wooden wainscoting of the ceiling. After a few
minutes he pushed the chair aside with his foot, raised his hand to his
mouth, separated his moustache from his thick brown beard, and went to
the window. The small, round, leaden-cased panes, however brightly they
might be polished, permitted only a narrow portion of the street to be
seen, but the burgomaster seemed to have found the object for which he
had been looking. Hastily opening the window, he called to his servant,
who was hurriedly approaching the house:

“Is he in, Janche?”

The Frieselander shook his head, the window again closed, and a few
minutes after the burgomaster seized his hat, which hung, between some
cavalry pistols and a plain, substantial sword, on the only wall of his
room not perfectly bare.

The torturing anxiety that filled his mind, would no longer allow him to
remain in the house.

He would have his horse saddled, and ride to meet the expected
messenger.

Ere leaving the room, he paused a moment lost in thought, then
approached the writing-table to sign some papers intended for the
town-hall; for his return might be delayed till night.

Still standing, he looked over the two sheets he had spread out before
him, and seized the pen. Just at that moment the door of the room gently
opened, and the fresh sand strewn over the white boards creaked under
a light foot. He doubtless heard it, but did not allow himself to be
interrupted.

His wife was now standing close behind him. Four and twenty years his
junior, she seemed like a timid girl, as she raised her arm, yet did not
venture to divert her husband’s attention from his business.

She waited quietly till he had signed the first paper, then turned her
pretty head aside, and blushing faintly, exclaimed with downcast eyes:

“It is I, Peter!”

“Very well, my child,” he answered curtly, raising the second paper
nearer his eyes.

“Peter!” she exclaimed a second time, still more eagerly, but with
timidity. “I have something to tell you.”

Van der Werff turned his head, cast a hasty, affectionate glance at her,
and said:

“Now, child? You see I am busy, and there is my hat.”

“But Peter!” she replied, a flash of something like indignation
sparkling in her eyes, as she continued in a voice pervaded with a
slightly perceptible tone of complaint: “We haven’t said anything to
each other to-day. My heart is so full, and what I would fain say to you
is, must surely--”

“When I come home Maria, not now,” he interrupted, his deep voice
sounding half impatient, half beseeching. “First the city and the
country--then love-making.”

At these words, Maria raised her head proudly, and answered with
quivering lips:

“That is what you have said ever since the first day of our marriage.”

“And unhappily--unhappily--I must continue to say so until we reach
the goal,” he answered firmly. The blood mounted into the young wife’s
delicate cheeks, and with quickened breathing, she answered in a hasty,
resolute tone:

“Yes, indeed, I have known these words ever since your courtship, and as
I am my father’s daughter never opposed them, but now they are no longer
suited to us, and should be: ‘Everything for the country, and nothing at
all for the wife.’”

Van der Werff laid down his pen and turned full towards her.

Maria’s slender figure seemed to have grown taller, and the blue eyes,
swimming in tears, flashed proudly. This life-companion seemed to have
been created by God especially for him. His heart opened to her, and
frankly stretching out both hands, he said tenderly:

“You know how matters are! This heart is changeless, and other days will
come.”

“When?” asked Maria, in a tone as mournful as if she believed in no
happier future.

“Soon,” replied her husband firmly. “Soon, if only each one gives
willingly what our native land demands.”

At these words the young wife loosed her hands from her husband’s,
for the door had opened and Barbara called to her brother from the
threshold.

“Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma, the Glipper, is in the entry and wants to
speak to you.”

“Show him up,” said the burgomaster reluctantly. When again alone with
his wife, he asked hastily “Will you be indulgent and help me?”

She nodded assent, trying to smile.

He saw that she was sad and, as this grieved him, held out his hand to
her again, saying:

“Better days will come, when I shall be permitted to be more to you than
to-day. What were you going to say just now?”

“Whether you know it or not--is of no importance to the state.”

“But to you. Then lift up your head again, and look at me. Quick, love,
for they are already on the stairs.”

“It isn’t worth mentioning--a year ago to-day--we might celebrate the
anniversary of our wedding to-day.”

“The anniversary of our wedding-day!” he cried, striking his hands
loudly together. “Yes, this is the seventeenth of April, and I have
forgotten it.”

He drew her tenderly towards him, but just at that moment the door
opened, and Adrian ushered the baron into the room.

Van der Werff bowed courteously to the infrequent guest, then called
to his blushing wife, who was retiring: “My congratulations! I’ll come
later. Adrian, we are to celebrate a beautiful festival to-day, the
anniversary of our marriage.”

The boy glided swiftly out of the door, which he still held in his hand,
for he suspected the aristocratic visitor boded him no good.

In the entry he paused to think, then hurried up the stairs, seized his
plumeless cap, and rushed out of doors. He saw his school-mates, armed
with sticks and poles, ranging themselves in battle array, and would
have liked to join the game of war, but for that very reason preferred
not to listen to the shouts of the combatants at that moment, and ran
towards the Zylhof until beyond the sound of their voices.

He now checked his steps, and in a stooping posture, often on his knees,
followed the windings of a narrow canal that emptied into the Rhine.

As soon as his cap was overflowing with the white, blue, and yellow
spring flowers he had gathered, he sat down on a boundary stone, and
with sparkling eyes bound them into a beautiful bouquet, with which he
ran home.

On the bench beside the gate sat the old maidservant with his little
sister, a child six years old. Handing the flowers, which he had kept
hidden behind his back, to her, he said:

“Take them and carry them to mother, Bessie; this is the anniversary of
her wedding-day. Give her warm congratulations too, from us both.”

The child rose, and the old servant said, “You are a good boy, Adrian.”

“Do you think so?” he asked, all the sins of the forenoon returning to
his mind.

But unluckily they caused him no repentance; on the contrary, his eyes
began to sparkle mischievously, and a smile hovered around his lips, as
he patted the old woman’s shoulder, whispering softly in her ear:

“The hair flew to-day, Trautchen. My doublet and new stockings are lying
up in my room under the bed. Nobody can mend as well as you.”

Trautchen shook her finger at him, but he turned hastily back and
ran towards the Zyl-gate, this time to lead the Spaniards against the
Netherlanders.




CHAPTER III.

The burgomaster had pressed the nobleman to sit down in the study-chair,
while he himself leaned in a half-sitting attitude on the writing-table,
listening somewhat impatiently to his distinguished guest.

“Before speaking of more important things,” Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma
had begun, “I should like to appeal to you, as a just man, for some
punishment for the injury my son has sustained in this city.”

“Speak,” said the burgomaster, and the nobleman now briefly, and with
unconcealed indignation, related the story of the attack upon his son at
the church.

“I’ll inform the rector of the annoying incident,” replied Van der
Werff, “and the culprits will receive their just dues; but pardon me,
noble sir, if I ask whether any inquiry has been made concerning the
cause of the quarrel?”

Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma looked at the burgomaster in surprise and
answered proudly:

“You know my son’s report.”

“Both sides must be fairly heard,” replied Van der Werff calmly. “That
has been the custom of the Netherlands from ancient times.”

“My son bears my name and speaks the truth.”

“Our boys are called simply Leendert or Adrian or Gerrit, but they
do the same, so I must beg you to send the young gentleman to the
examination at the school.”

“By no means,” answered the knight resolutely. “If I had thought the
matter belonged to the rector’s department, I should have sought him and
not you, Herr Peter. My son has his own tutor, and was not attacked in
your school, which in any case he has outgrown, for he is seventeen,
but in the public street, whose security it is the burgomaster’s duty to
guard.”

“Very well then, make your complaint, take the youth before the judges,
summon witnesses and let the law follow its course. But, sir,” continued
Van der Werff, softening the impatience in his voice, “were you not
young yourself once? Have you entirely forgotten the fights under
the citadel? What pleasure will it afford you, if we lock up a few
thoughtless lads for two days this sunny weather? The scamps will find
something amusing to do indoors, as well as out, and only the parents
will be punished.”

The last words were uttered so cordially and pleasantly, that they could
not fail to have their effect upon the baron. He was a handsome
man, whose refined, agreeable features, of the true Netherland type,
expressed anything rather than severity.

“If you speak to me in this tone, we shall come to an agreement more
easily,” he answered, smiling. “I will only say this. Had the brawl
arisen in sport, or from some boyish quarrel, I wouldn’t have wasted
a word on the matter--but that children already venture to assail with
jeers and violence those who hold different opinions, ought not to be
permitted to pass without reproof. The boys shouted after my son the
absurd word--”

“It is certainly an insult,” interrupted Van der Werff, “a very
disagreeable name, that our people bestow on the enemies of their
liberty.”

The baron rose, angrily confronting the other.

“Who tells you,” he cried, striking his broad breast, padded with silken
puffs, “who tells you that we grudge Holland her liberty? We desire,
just as earnestly as you, to win it back to the States, but by other,
straighter paths than Orange--”

“I cannot test here whether your paths are crooked or straight,”
 retorted Van der Werff; “but I do know this--they are labyrinths.”

“They will lead to the heart of Philip, our king and yours.”

“Yes, if he only had what we in Holland call a heart,” replied the
other, smiling bitterly; but Wibisma threw his head back vehemently,
exclaiming reproachfully:

“Sir Burgomaster, you are speaking of the anointed Prince to whom I have
sworn fealty.”

“Baron Matanesse,” replied Van der Werff, in a tone of deep earnestness,
as he drew himself up to his full height, folded his arms, and looked
the nobleman sharply in the eye, “I speak rather of the tyrant, whose
bloody council declared all who bore the Netherland name, and you among
us, criminals worthy of death; who, through his destroying devil, Alva,
burned, beheaded, and hung thousands of honest men, robbed and exiled
from the country thousands of others, I speak of the profligate--”

“Enough!” cried the knight, clenching the hilt of his sword. “Who gives
you the right--”

“Who gives me the right to speak so bitterly, you would ask?”
 interrupted Peter Van der Werff, meeting the nobleman’s eyes with a
gloomy glance. “Who gives me this right? I need not conceal it. It was
bestowed by the silent lips of my valiant father, beheaded for the
sake of his faith, by the arbitrary decree, that without form of law,
banished my brother and myself from the country--by the Spaniards’
broken vows, the torn charters of this land, the suffering of the poor,
ill-treated, worthy people that will perish if we do not save them.”

“You will not save them,” replied Wibisma in a calmer tone. “You will
push those tottering on the verge of the abyss completely over the
precipice, and go to destruction with them.”

“We are pilots. Perhaps we shall bring deliverance, perhaps we shall go
to ruin with those for whom we are ready to die.”

“You say that, and yet a young, blooming wife binds you to life.”

“Baron, you have crossed this threshold as complainant to the
burgomaster, not as guest or friend.”

“Quite true, but I came with kind intentions, as monitor to the guiding
head of this beautiful, hapless city. You have escaped the storm once,
but new and far heavier ones are gathering above your heads.”

“We do not fear them.”

“Not even now?”

“Now, with good reason, far less than ever.”

“Then you don’t know the Prince’s brother--”

“Louis of Nassau was close upon the Spaniards on the 14th, and our cause
is doing well--”

“It certainly did not fare ill at first.”

“The messenger, who yesterday evening--”

“Ours came this morning.”

“This morning, you say? And what more--”

“The Prince’s army was defeated and utterly destroyed on Mook Heath.
Louis of Nassau himself was slain.”

Van der Werff pressed his fingers firmly on the wood of the
writing-table. The fresh color of his cheeks and lips had yielded to
a livid pallor, and his mouth quivered painfully as he asked in a low,
hollow tone, “Louis dead, really dead?”

“Dead,” replied the baron firmly, though sorrowfully. “We were enemies,
but Louis was a noble youth. I mourn him with you.”

“Dead, William’s favorite dead!” murmured the burgomaster as if in a
dream. Then, controlling himself by a violent effort, he said, firmly:

“Pardon me, noble sir. Time is flying. I must go to the town-hall.”

“And spite of my message, you will continue to uphold rebellion?”

“Yes, my lord, as surely as I am a Hollander.”

“Do you remember the fate of Haarlem?”

“I remember her citizens’ resistance, and the rescued Alkmaar.”

“Man, man!” cried the baron. “By all that sacred, I implore you to be
circumspect.”

“Enough, baron, I must go to the town-hall.”

“No, only this one more word, this one word. I know you upbraid us
as ‘Glippers,’ deserters, but as truly as I hope for God’s mercy, you
misjudge us. No, Herr Peter, no, I am no traitor! I love this country
and this brave, industrious people with the same love as yourself, for
its blood flows in my veins also. I signed the compromise. Here I stand,
sir. Look at me. Do I look like a Judas? Do I look like a Spaniard? Can
you blame me for faithfully keeping the oath I gave the king? When did
we of the Netherlands ever trifle with vows? You, the friend of Orange,
have just declared that you did not grudge any man the faith to which he
clung, and I will not doubt it. Well, I hold firmly to the old church, I
am a Catholic and shall remain one. But in this hour I frankly confess,
that I hate the inquisition and Alva’s bloody deeds as much as you do.
They have as little connection with our religion as iconoclasm had with
yours Like you, I love the freedom of our home. To win it back is my
endeavor, as well as yours. But how can a little handful like us ever
succeed in finally resisting the most powerful kingdom in the world?
Though we conquer once, twice, thrice, two stronger armies will follow
each defeated one. We shall accomplish nothing by force, but may do much
by wise concession and prudent deeds. Philip’s coffers are empty; he
needs his armies too in other countries. Well then, let us profit by
his difficulties, and force him to ratify some lost liberty for every
revolted city that returns to him. Let us buy from his hands, with
what remains of our old wealth, the rights he has wrested from us while
fighting against the rebels. You will find open hands with me and those
who share my opinions. Your voice weighs heavily in the council of this
city. You are the friend of Orange, and if you could induce him--”

“To do what, noble sir?”

“To enter into an alliance with us. We know that those in Madrid
understand how to estimate his importance and fear him. Let us
stipulate, as the first condition, a full pardon for him and his
faithful followers. King Philip, I know, will receive him into favor
again--”

“In his arms to strangle him,” replied the burgomaster resolutely. “Have
you forgotten the false promises of pardon made in former times, the
fate of Egmont and Horn, the noble Montigney and other lords? They
ventured it and entered the tiger’s den. What we buy to-day will surely
be taken from us tomorrow, for what oath would be sacred to Philip? I am
no statesman, but I know this--if he would restore all our liberties, he
will never grant the one thing, without which life is valueless.”

“What is that, Herr Peter?”

“The privilege of believing according to the dictates of our hearts. You
mean fairly, noble sir;--but you trust the Spaniard, we do not; if we
did, we should be deceived children. You have nothing to fear for your
religion, we everything; you believe that the number of troops and power
of gold will turn the scales in our conflict, we comfort ourselves
with the hope, that God will give victory to the good cause of a brave
people, ready to suffer a thousand deaths for liberty. This is my
opinion, and I shall defend it in the town-hall.”

“No, Meister Peter, no! You cannot, ought not.”

“What I can do is little, what I ought to do is written within, and I
shall act accordingly.”

“And thus obey the sorrowing heart rather than the prudent head, and be
able to give naught save evil counsel. Consider, man, Orange’s last army
was destroyed on Mock Heath.”

“True, my lord, and for that very reason we will not use the moments for
words, but deeds.”

“I’ll take the hint myself, Herr Van der Werf, for many friends of the
king still dwell in Leyden, who must be taught not to follow you blindly
to the shambles.”

At these words Van der Werff retreated from the nobleman, clenched his
moustache firmly in his right hand, and raising his deep voice to a
louder tone, said coldly and imperiously:

“Then, as guardian of the safety of this city, I command you to quit
Leyden instantly. If you are found within these walls after noon
to-morrow, I will have you taken across the frontiers by the
city-guard.”

The baron withdrew without any form of leave-taking.

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Van der Werff, threw himself
into his arm-chair and covered his face with his hands. When he again
sat erect, two large tear-drops sparkled on the paper which had lain
under his fingers. Smiling bitterly, he wiped them from the page with
the back of his hand.

“Dead, dead,” he murmured, and the image of the gallant youth, the
clever mediator, the favorite of William of Orange, rose before his
mind--he asked himself how this fresh stroke of fate would affect the
Prince, whom he revered as the providence of the country, admired and
loved as the wisest, most unselfish of men.

William’s affliction grieved him as sorely as if it had fallen upon
himself, and the blow that had struck the cause of freedom was a heavy
one, perhaps never to be overcome.

Yet he only granted himself a short time to indulge in grief, for the
point in question now was to summon all the nation’s strength to repair
what was lost, avert by vigorous acts the serious consequences which
threatened to follow Louis’s defeat, and devise fresh means to carry on
the war.

He paced up and down the room with frowning brow, inventing measures
and pondering over plans. His wife had opened the door, and now remained
standing on the threshold, but he did not notice her until she called
his name and advanced towards him.

In her hand she held part of the flowers the boy had brought, another
portion adorned her bosom.

“Take it,” she said, offering him the bouquet. “Adrian, dear boy,
gathered them, and you surely know what they mean.”

He willingly took the messengers of spring, raised them to his face,
drew Maria to his breast, pressed a long kiss upon her brow, and then
said gloomily:

“So this is the celebration of the first anniversary of our wedding-day.
Poor wife! The Glipper was not so far wrong; perhaps it would have been
wiser and better for me not to bind your fate to mine.”

“How can such thoughts enter your mind, Peter!” she exclaimed
reproachfully.

“Louis of Nassau has fallen,” he murmured in a hollow tone, “his army is
scattered.”

“Oh-oh!” cried Maria, clasping her hands in horror, but he continued:

“It was our last body of troops. The coffers are empty, and where we
are to obtain new means, and what will happen now--this, this--Leave me,
Maria, I beg you. If we don’t profit by the time now, if we don’t find
the right paths now, we shall not, cannot prosper.”

With these words he threw the bouquet on the table, hastily seized a
paper, looked into it, and, without glancing at her, waved his right
hand.

The young wife’s heart had been full, wide open, when she entered the
room. She had expected so much that was beautiful from this hour, and
now stood alone in the apartment he still shared with her. Her arms had
fallen by her side; helpless, mortified, wounded, she gazed at him in
silence.

Maria had grown up amid the battle for freedom, and knew how to estimate
the grave importance of the tidings her husband had received. During his
wooing he had told her that, by his side, she must expect a life full of
anxiety and peril, yet she had joyously gone to the altar with the brave
champion of the good cause, which had been her father’s, for she had
hoped to become the sharer of his cares and struggles. And now? What was
she permitted to be to him? What did he receive from her? What had he
consented to share with her, who could not feel herself a feeble woman,
on this, the anniversary of their wedding-day.

There she stood, her open heart slowly closing and struggling against
her longing to cry out to him, and say that she would as gladly bear his
cares with him and share every danger, as happiness and honor.

The burgomaster, having now found what he sought, seized his hat and
again looked at his wife.

How pale and disappointed she was!

His heart ached; he would so gladly have given expression in words
to the great, warm love he felt for her, offered her joyous
congratulations; but in this hour, amid his grief, with such anxieties
burdening his breast, he could not do it, so he only held out both
hands, saying tenderly:

“You surely know what you are to me, Maria, if you do not, I will
tell you this evening. I must meet the members of the council at the
town-hall, or a whole day will be lost, and at this time we must be
avaricious even of the moments. Well, Maria?”

The young wife was gazing at the floor. She would gladly have flown to
his breast, but offended pride would not suffer her to do so, and some
mysterious power bound her hands and did not permit her to lay them in
his.

“Farewell,” she said in a hollow tone.

“Maria!” he exclaimed reproachfully. “To-day is no well-chosen time for
pouting. Come and be my sensible wife.”

She did not move instantly; but he heard the bell ring for the fourth
hour, the time when the session of the council ended, and left the room
without looking back at her.

The little bouquet still lay on the writing-table; the young wife saw
it, and with difficulty restrained her tears.




CHAPTER IV.

Countless citizens had flocked to the stately townhall. News of Louis of
Nassau’s defeat had spread quickly through all the eighteen wards of the
city, and each wanted to learn farther particulars, express his grief
and fears to those who held the same views, and hear what measures the
council intended to adopt for the immediate future.

Two messengers had only too thoroughly confirmed Baron Matanesse Van
Wibisma’s communication. Louis was dead, his brother Henry missing, and
his army completely destroyed.

Jan Van Hout, who had taught the boys that morning, now came to a
window, informed the citizens what a severe blow the liberty of the
country had received, and in vigorous words exhorted them to support the
good cause with body and soul.

Loud cheers followed this speech. Gay caps and plumed hats were tossed
in the air, canes and swords were waved, and the women and children, who
had crowded among the men, fluttered their handkerchiefs, and with their
shriller voices drowned the shouts of the citizens.

The members of the valiant city-guard assembled, to charge their captain
to give the council the assurance, that the “Schutterij” was ready to
support William of Orange to the last penny and drop of their blood,
and would rather die for the cause of Holland, than live under Spanish
tyranny. Among them was seen many a grave, deeply-troubled face; for
these men, who filled its ranks by their own choice, all loved William
of Orange: his sorrow hurt them--and their country’s distress pierced
their hearts. As soon as the four burgomasters, the eight magistrates of
the city, and the members of the common council appeared at the windows,
hundreds of voices joined in the Geusenlied,--[Beggars’ Song or Hymn.
Beggar was the name given to the patriots by those who sympathized with
Spain.]--which had long before been struck up by individuals, and when
at sunset the volatile populace scattered and, still singing, turned,
either singly or by twos or threes, towards the taverns, to strengthen
their confidence in better days and dispel many a well-justified anxiety
by drink, the market-place of Leyden and its adjoining streets presented
no different aspect, than if a message of victory had been read from the
town-hall.

The cheers and Beggars’ Song had sounded very powerful--but so many
hundreds of Dutch throats would doubtless have been capable of shaking
the air with far mightier tones.

This very remark had been made by the three well-dressed citizens,
who were walking through the wide street, past the blue stone, and the
eldest said to his companions:

“They boast and shout and seem large to themselves now, but we shall see
that things will soon be very different.”

“May God avert the worst!” replied the other, “but the Spaniards will
surely advance again, and I know many in my ward who won’t vote for
resistance this time.”

“They are right, a thousand times right. Requesens is not Alva, and if
we voluntarily seek the king’s pardon--”

“There would be no blood shed and everything would take the best
course.”

“I have more love for Holland than for Spain,” said the third. “But,
after Mook-Heath, resistance is a thing of the past. Orange may be an
excellent prince, but the shirt is closer than the coat.”

“And in fact we risk our lives and fortunes merely for him.”

“My wife said so yesterday.”

“He’ll be the last man to help trade. Believe me, many think as we do,
if it were not so, the Beggars’ Song would have sounded louder.”

“There will always be five fools to three wise men,” said the older
citizen. “I took good care not to split my mouth.”

“And after all, what great thing is there behind this outcry for
freedom? Alva burnt the Bible-readers, De la Marck hangs the priests.
My wife likes to go to Mass, but always does so secretly, as if she were
committing a crime.”

“We, too, cling to the good old faith.”

“Never mind faith,” said the third. “We are Calvinists, but I take no
pleasure in throwing my pennies into Orange’s maw, nor can it gratify me
to again tear up the poles before the Cow-gate, ere the wind dries the
yarn.”

“Only let us hold together,” advised the older man. “People don’t
express their real opinions, and any poor ragged devil might play the
hero. But I tell you there will be sensible men enough in every ward,
every guild, nay, even in the council, and among the burgomasters.”

“Hush,” whispered the second citizen, “there comes Van der Werff with
the city clerk and young Van der Does; they are the worst of all.”

The three persons named came down the broad street, talking eagerly
together, but in low tones.

“My uncle is right, Meister Peter,” said Jan Van der Does, the same
tall young noble, who, on the morning of that day, had sent Nicolas
Van Wibisma home with a kindly warning. “It’s no use, you must seek the
Prince and consult with him.”

“I suppose I must,” replied the burgomaster. “I’ll go to-morrow
morning.”

“Not to-morrow,” replied Van Hout. “The Prince rides fast, and if you
don’t find him in Delft--”

“Do you go first,” urged the burgomaster, “you have the record of our
session.”

“I cannot; but to-day you, the Prince’s friend, for the first time lack
good-will.”

“You are right, Jan,” exclaimed the burgomaster, “and you shall know
what holds me back.”

“If it is anything a friend can do for you, here he stands,” said von
Nordwyk.

Van der Werff grasped the hand the young nobleman extended, and
answered, smiling: “No, my lord, no. You know my young wife. To-day we
should have celebrated the first anniversary of our marriage, and amid
all these anxieties I disgracefully forgot it.”

“Hard, hard,” said Van Hout, softly. Then he drew himself up to his full
height, and added resolutely: “And yet, were I in your place, I would
go, in spite of her.”

“Would you go to-day?”

“To-day, for to-morrow it may be too late. Who knows how soon egress
from the city may be stopped and, before again venturing the utmost, we
must know the Prince’s opinion. You possess more of his confidence than
any of us.”

“And God knows how gladly I would bring him a cheering word in these
sorrowful hours; but it must not be to-day. The messenger has ridden off
on my bay.”

“Then take my chestnut, he is faster too,” said Janus Dousa and Van der
Werff answered hastily.

“Thanks, my lord. I’ll send for him early tomorrow morning.”

The blood mounted to Van Hout’s head and, thrusting his hand angrily
between his girdle and doublet, he exclaimed: “Send me the chestnut, if
the burgomaster will give me leave of absence.”

“No, send him to me,” replied Peter calmly. “What must be, must be; I’ll
go to-day.”

Van Hout’s manly features quickly smoothed and, clasping the
burgomaster’s right hand in both his, he said joyously:

“Thanks, Herr Peter. And no offence; you know my hot temper. If the time
seems long to your young wife, send her to mine.”

“And mine,” added Dousa. “It’s a strange thing about those two little
words ‘wish’ and ‘ought.’ The freer and better a man becomes, the more
surely the first becomes the slave of the second.

“And yet, Herr Peter, I’ll wager that your wife will confound the
two words to-day, and think you have sorely transgressed against the
‘ought.’ These are bad times for the ‘wish.’”

Van der Werff nodded assent, then briefly and firmly explained to his
friends what he intended to disclose to the Prince.

The three men separated before the burgomaster’s house.

“Tell the Prince,” said Van Hout, on parting, “that we are prepared for
the worst, will endure and dare it.”

At these words Janus Dousa measured both his companions with his eyes,
his lips quivered as they always did when any strong emotion filled
his heart, and while his shrewd face beamed with joy and confidence, he
exclaimed: “We three will hold out, we three will stand firm, the tyrant
may break our necks, but he shall not bend them. Life, fortune, all that
is dear and precious and useful to man, we will resign for the highest
of blessings.”

“Ay,” said Van der Werff, loudly and earnestly, while Van Hout
impetuously repeated: “Yes, yes, thrice yes.”

The three men, so united in feeling, grasped each other’s hands firmly
for a moment. A silent vow bound them in this hour, and when Herr von
Nordwyk and Van Hout turned in opposite directions, the citizens who met
them thought their tall figures had grown taller still within the last
few hours.

The burgomaster went to his wife’s room without delay, but did not find
her there.

She had gone out of the gate with his sister.

The maid-servant carried a light into his chamber; he followed her,
examined the huge locks of his pistols, buckled on his old sword, put
what he needed into his saddle-bags, then, with his tall figure drawn up
to its full height, paced up and down the room, entirely absorbed in his
task.

Herr von Nordwyk’s chestnut horse was stamping on the pavement before
the door, and Hesperus was rising above the roofs.

The door of the house now opened.

He went into the entry and found, not his wife, but Adrian, who had just
returned home, told the boy to give his most loving remembrances to
his mother, and say that he was obliged to seek the Prince on important
business.

Old Trautchen had already washed and undressed little Elizabeth, and now
brought him the child wrapped in a coverlet. He kissed the dear little
face, which smiled at him out of its queer disguise, pressed his lips
to Adrian’s forehead, again told him to give his love to his mother, and
then rode down Marendorpstrasse.

Two women, coming from the Rheinsburger gate, met him just as he reached
St. Stephen’s cloister. He did not notice them, but the younger one
pushed the kerchief back from her head, hastily grasped her companion’s
wrist, and exclaimed in a low tone:

“That was Peter!”

Barbara raised her head higher.

“It’s lucky I’m not timid. Let go of my arm. Do you mean the horseman
trotting past St. Ursula alley?”

“Yes, it is Peter.”

“Nonsense, child! The bay has shorter legs than that tall camel; and
Peter never rides out at this hour.”

“But it was he.”

“God forbid! At night a linden looks like a beechtree. It would be a
pretty piece of business, if he didn’t come home to-day.”

The last words had escaped Barbara’s lips against her will; for until
then she had prudently feigned not to suspect that everything between
Maria and her husband was not exactly as it ought to be, though
she plainly perceived what was passing in the mind of her young
sister-in-law.

She was a shrewd woman, with much experience of the world, who certainly
did not undervalue her brother and his importance to the cause of their
native land; nay, she went so far as to believe that, with the exception
of the Prince of Orange, no man on earth would be more skilful than
Peter in guiding the cause of freedom to a successful end; but she felt
that her brother was not treating Maria justly, and being a fair-minded
woman, silently took sides against the husband who neglected his wife.

Both walked side by side for a time in silence. At last the widow
paused, saying:

“Perhaps the Prince has sent a messenger for Peter. In such times, after
such blows, everything is possible. You might have seen correctly.”

“It was surely he,” replied Maria positively.

“Poor fellow!” said the other. “It must be a sad ride for him! Much
honor, much hardship! You’ve no reason to despond, for your husband
will return tomorrow or the day after; while I--look at me, Maria! I go
through life stiff and straight, do my duty cheerfully; my cheeks are
rosy, my food has a relish, yet I’ve been obliged to resign what was
dearest to me. I have endured my widowhood ten years; my daughter
Gretchen has married, and I sent Cornelius myself to the Beggars of the
Sea. Any hour may rob me of him, for his life is one of constant
peril. What has a widow except her only son? And I gave him up for our
country’s cause! That is harder than to see a husband ride away for a
few hours on the anniversary of his wedding-day. He certainly doesn’t do
it for his own pleasure!”

“Here we are at home,” said Maria, raising the knocker.

Trautchen opened the door and, even before crossing the threshold,
Barbara exclaimed:

“Is your master at home?”

The reply was in the negative, as she too now expected.

Adrian gave his message; Trautchen brought up the supper, but the
conversation would not extend beyond “yes” and “no.”

After Maria had hastily asked the blessing, she rose, and turning to
Barbara, said:

“My head aches, I should like to go to bed.”

“Then go to rest,” replied the widow. “I’ll sleep in the next room and
leave the door open. In darkness and silence--whims come.”

Maria kissed her sister-in-law with sincere affection, and lay down in
bed; but she found no sleep, and tossed restlessly to and fro until near
midnight.

Hearing Barbara cough in the next room, she sat up and asked:

“Sister-in-law, are you asleep?”

“No, child. Do you feel ill?”

“Not exactly; but I’m so anxious--horrible thoughts torment me.”

Barbara instantly lighted a candle at the night-lamp, entered the
chamber with it, and sat down on the edge of the bed.

Her heart ached as she gazed at the pretty young creature lying alone,
full of sorrow, in the wide bed, unable to sleep from bitter grief.

Maria had never seemed to her so beautiful; resting in her white
night-robes on the snowy pillow, she looked like a sorrowing angel.

Barbara could not refrain from smoothing the hair back from the narrow
forehead and kissing the flushed cheeks.

Maria gazed gratefully into her small, light-blue eyes and said
beseechingly:

“I should like to ask you something.”

“Well?”

“But you must honestly tell me the truth.”

“That is asking a great deal!”

“I know you are sincere, but it is--”

“Speak freely.”

“Was Peter happy with his first wife?”

“Yes, child, yes.”

“And do you know this not only from him, but also from his dead wife,
Eva?”

“Yes, sister-in-law, yes.”

“And you can’t be mistaken?”

“Not in this case certainly! But what puts such thoughts into your head?
The Bible says: ‘Let the dead bury their dead.’ Now turn over and try to
sleep.”

Barbara went back to her room, but hours elapsed ere Maria found the
slumber she sought.




CHAPTER V.

The next morning two horsemen, dressed in neat livery, were waiting
before the door of a handsome House in Nobelstrasse, near the
market-place. A third was leading two sturdy roan steeds up and down,
and a stable-boy held by the bridle a gaily-bedizened, long maned pony.
This was intended for the young negro lad, who stood in the door-way
of the house and kept off the street-boys, who ventured to approach, by
rolling his eyes and gnashing his white teeth at them.

“Where can they be?” said one of the mounted men: “The rain won’t keep
off long to-day.”

“Certainly not,” replied the other. “The sky is as grey as my old
felt-hat, and, by the time we reach the forest, it will be pouring.”

“It’s misting already.”

“Such cold, damp weather is particularly disagreeable to me.”

“It was pleasant yesterday.”

“Button the flaps tighter over the pistol-holsters! The portmanteau
behind the young master’s saddle isn’t exactly even. There! Did the cook
fill the flask for you?”

“With brown Spanish wine. There it is.”

“Then let it pour. When a fellow is wet inside, he can bear a great deal
of moisture without.”

“Lead the horses up to the door; I hear the gentlemen.”

The man was not mistaken; for before his companion had succeeded in
stopping the larger roan, the voices of his master, Herr Matanesse Van
Wibisma, and his son, Nicolas, were heard in the wide entry.

Both were exchanging affectionate farewells with a young girl, whose
voice sounded deeper than the halfgrown boy’s.

As the older gentleman thrust his hand through the roan’s mane and was
already lifting his foot to put it in the stirrup, the young girl, who
had remained in the entry, came out into the street, laid her hand on
Wibisma’s arm, and said:

“One word more, uncle, but to you alone.”

The baron still held his horse’s mane in his hand, exclaiming with a
cordial smile:

“If only it isn’t too heavy for the roan. A secret from beautiful lips
has its weight.”

While speaking, he bent his ear towards his niece, but she did not seem
to have intended to whisper, for she approached no nearer and merely
lowered her tone, saying in the Italian language:

“Please tell my father, that I won’t stay here.”

“Why, Henrica!”

“Tell him I won’t do so under any circumstances.”

“Your aunt won’t let you go.”

“In short, I won’t stay.”

“I’ll deliver the message, but in somewhat milder terms, if agreeable to
you.”

“As you choose. Tell him, too, that I beg him to send for me. If he
doesn’t wish to enter this heretic’s nest himself, for which I don’t
blame him in the least, he need only send horses or the carriage for
me.”

“And your reasons?”

“I won’t weight your baggage still more heavily. Go, or the saddle will
be wet before you ride off.”

“Then I’m to tell Hoogstraten to expect a letter.”

“No. Such things can’t be written. Besides, it won’t be necessary. Tell
my father I won’t stay with aunt, and want to go home. Good-bye, Nico.
Your riding-boots and green cloth doublet are much more becoming than
those silk fal-lals.”

The young lady kissed her hand to the youth, who had already swung
himself into the saddle, and hurried back to the house. Her uncle
shrugged his shoulders, mounted the roan, wrapped the dark cloak closer
around him, beckoned Nicolas to his side, and rode on with him in
advance of the servants.

No word was exchanged between them, so long as their way led through the
city, but outside the gate, Wibisma said:

“Henrica finds the time long in Leyden; she would like to go back to her
father.”

“It can’t be very pleasant to stay with aunt,” replied the youth.

“She is old and sick, and her life has been a joyless one.”

“Yet she was beautiful. Few traces of it are visible, but her eyes are
still like those in the portrait, and besides she is so rich.”

“That doesn’t give happiness.”

“But why has she remained unmarried?” The baron shrugged his shoulders,
and replied: “It certainly didn’t suit the men.”

“Then why didn’t she go into a convent?”

“Who knows? Women’s hearts are harder to understand than your Greek
books. You’ll learn that later. What were you saying to your aunt as I
came up?”

“Why, just see,” replied the boy, putting the bridle in his mouth,
and drawing the glove from his left hand, “she slipped this ring on my
finger.”

“A splendid emerald! She doesn’t usually like to part with such things.”

“She first offered me another, saying she would give it to me to make
amends for the thumps I received yesterday as a faithful follower of the
king. Isn’t it comical?”

“More than that, I should think.”

“It was contrary to my nature to accept gifts for my bruises, and I
hastily drew my hand back, saying the burgher lads had taken some home
from me, and I wouldn’t have the ring as a reward for that.”

“Right, Nico, right.”

“So she said too, put the little ring back in the box, found this one,
and here it is.”

“A valuable gem!” murmured the baron, thinking: “This gift is a good
omen. The Hoogstratens and he are her nearest heirs, and if the silly
girl doesn’t stay with her, it might happen--”

But he found no time to finish these reflections, Nicolas interrupted
them by saying:

“It’s beginning to rain already. Don’t the fogs on the meadows look like
clouds fallen from the skies? I am cold.”

“Draw your cloak closer.”

“How it rains and hails! One would think it was winter. The water in the
canals looks black, and yonder--see--what is that?”

A tavern stood beside the road, and just in front of it a single lofty
elm towered towards the sky. Its trunk, bare as a mast, had grown
straight up without separating into branches until it attained the
height of a house. Spring had as yet lured no leaves from the boughs,
but there were many objects to be seen in the bare top of the tree. A
small flag, bearing the colors of the House of Orange, was fastened to
one branch, from another hung a large doll, which at a distance strongly
resembled a man dressed in black, an old hat dangled from a third, and a
fourth supported a piece of white pasteboard, on which might be read in
large black letters, which the rain was already beginning to efface:

     “Good luck to Orange, to the Spaniard death.
     So Peter Quatgelat welcomes his guests.”

This tree, with its motley adornments, offered a by no means pleasant
spectacle, seen in the grey, cold, misty atmosphere of the rainy April
morning.

Ravens had alighted beside the doll swaying to and fro in the wind,
probably mistaking it for a man. They must have been by no means
teachable birds, for during the years the Spaniards had ruled in
Holland, the places of execution were never empty. They were screeching
as if in anger, but still remained perched on the tree, which they
probably mistook for a gibbet. The rest of the comical ornaments and
the thought of the nimble adventurer, who must have climbed up to fasten
them, formed a glaring and offensive contrast to the caricature of the
gallows.

Yet Nicolas laughed loudly, as he perceived the queer objects in the top
of the elm, and pointing upward, said:

“What kind of fruits are hanging there?”

But the next instant a chill ran down his back, for a raven perched on
the black doll and pecked so fiercely at it with its hard beak, that
bird and image swayed to and fro like a pendulum.

“What does this nonsense mean?” asked the baron, turning to the servant,
a bold-looking fellow, who rode behind him.

“It’s something like a tavern-sign,” replied the latter.
“Yesterday, when the sun was shining, it looked funny enough--but
to-day--b-r-r-r-it’s horrible.”

The nobleman’s eyes were not keen enough to read the inscription on the
placard. When Nicolas read it aloud to him, he muttered an oath, then
turned again to the servant, saying:

“And does this nonsense bring guests to the rascally host’s tavern?”

“Yes, my lord, and ‘pon my soul, it looked very comical yesterday, when
the ravens were not to be seen; a fellow couldn’t look at it without
laughing. Half Leyden was there, and we went with the crowd. There
was such an uproar on the grass-plot yonder. Dudeldum--Hubutt,
Hubutt--Dudeldum--fiddles squeaking and bag-pipes droning as if they
never would stop. The crazy throng shouted amidst the din; the noise
still rings in my ears. There was no end to the games and dancing. The
lads tossed their brown, blue and red-stockinged legs in the air, just
as the fiddle played--the coat-tails flew and, holding a girl clasped
in the right arm and a mug of beer high over their heads till the foam
spattered, the throng of men whirled round and round. There was as much
screaming and rejoicing as if every butter-cup in the grass had been
changed into a gold florin. But to-day--holy Florian--this is a rain!”

“It will do the things up there good,” exclaimed the baron. “The tinder
grows damp in such a torrent, or I’d take out my pistols and shoot the
shabby liberty hat and motley tatters off the tree.”

“That was the dancing ground,” said the man, pointing to a patch of
trampled grass.

“The people are possessed, perfectly possessed,” cried the baron,
“dancing and rejoicing to-day, and tomorrow the wind will blow the
felt-hat and flag from the tree, and instead of the black puppet they
themselves will come to the gallows. Steady roan, steady! The hail
frightens the beasts. Unbuckle the portmanteau, Gerrit, and give your
young master a blanket.”

“Yes, my lord. But wouldn’t it be better for you to go in here until the
shower is over? Holy Florian!

“Just see that piece of ice in your horse’s mane! It’s as large as
a pigeon’s egg. Two horses are already standing under the shed, and
Quatgelat’s beer isn’t bad.” The baron glanced inquiringly at his son.

“Let us go in,” replied Nicolas; “we shall get to the Hague early
enough. See how poor Balthasar is shivering! Henrica says he’s a white
boy painted; but if she could see how well he keeps his color in this
weather, she would take it back.”

Herr Van Wibisma turned his dripping, smoking steed, frightened by
the hail-stones, towards the house, and in a few minutes crossed the
threshold of the inn with his son.




CHAPTER VI.

A current of warm air, redolent of beer and food, met the travellers
as they entered the large, low room, dimly lighted by the tiny windows,
scarcely more than loop-holes, pierced in two sides. The tap-room itself
looked like the cabin of a ship. Ceiling and floor, chairs and tables,
were made of the same dark-brown wood that covered the walls, along
which beds were ranged like berths.

The host, with many bows, came forward to receive the aristocratic
guests, and led them to the fire-place, where huge pieces of peat were
glimmering. The heat they sent forth answered several purposes at the
same time. It warmed the air, lighted a portion of the room, which
was very dark in rainy weather, and served to cook three fowl that,
suspended from a thin iron bar over the fire, were already beginning to
brown.

As the new guests approached the hearth, an old woman, who had been
turning the spit, pushed a white cat from her lap and rose.

The landlord tossed on a bench several garments spread over the backs
of two chairs to dry, and hung in their place the dripping cloaks of the
baron and his son.

While the elder Wibisma was ordering something hot to drink for himself
and servants, Nicolas led the black page to the fire.

The shivering boy crouched on the floor beside the ashes, and stretched
now his soaked feet, shod in red morocco, and now his stiffened fingers
to the blaze.

The father and son took their seats at a table, over which the
maid-servant had spread a cloth. The baron was inclined to enter into
conversation about the decorated tree with the landlord, an over-civil,
pock-marked dwarf, whose clothes were precisely the same shade of brown
as the wood in his tap-room; but refrained from doing so because two
citizens of Leyden, one of whom was well known to him, sat at a short
distance from his table, and he did not wish to be drawn into a quarrel
in a place like this.

After Nicolas had also glanced around the tap-room, he touched his
father, saying in a low tone:

“Did you notice the men yonder? The younger one--he’s lifting the cover
of the tankard now--is the organist who released me from the boys and
gave me his cloak yesterday.”

“The one yonder?” asked the nobleman. “A handsome young fellow. He might
be taken for an artist or something of that kind. Here, landlord, who
is the gentleman with brown hair and large eyes, talking to Allertssohn,
the fencing-master?”

“It’s Herr Wilhelm, younger son of old Herr Cornelius, Receiver General,
a player or musician, as they call them.”

“Eh, eh,” cried the baron. “His father is one of my old Leyden
acquaintances. He was a worthy, excellent man before the craze for
liberty turned people’s heads. The youth, too, has a face pleasant to
look at.

“There is something pure about it--something-it’s hard to say,
something--what do you think, Nico? Doesn’t he look like our Saint
Sebastian? Shall I speak to him and thank him for his kindness?”

The baron, without waiting for his son, whom he treated as an equal,
to reply, rose to give expression to his friendly feelings towards the
musician, but this laudable intention met with an unexpected obstacle.

The man, whom the baron had called the fencing-master Allertssohn, had
just perceived that the “Glippers” cloaks were hanging by the fire,
while his friend’s and his own were flung on a bench. This fact seemed
to greatly irritate the Leyden burgher; for as the baron rose, he pushed
his own chair violently back, bent his muscular body forward, rested
both arms on the edge of the table opposite to him and, with a jerking
motion, turned his soldierly face sometimes towards the baron, and
sometimes towards the landlord. At last he shouted loudly:

“Peter Quatgelat--you villain, you! What ails you, you, miserable
hunchback!--Who gives you a right to toss our cloaks into a corner?”

“Yours, Captain,” stammered the host, “were already--”

“Hold your tongue, you fawning knave!” thundered the other in so loud a
tone and such excitement, that the long grey moustache on his upper lip
shook, and the thick beard on his chin trembled. “Hold your tongue! We
know better. Jove’s thunder! Nobleman’s cloaks are favored here. They’re
of Spanish cut. That exactly suits the Glippers’ faces. Good Dutch cloth
is thrown into the corner. Ho, ho, Brother Crooklegs, we’ll put you on
parade.”

“Pray, most noble Captain--”

“I’ll blow away your most noble, you worthless scamp, you arrant rascal!
First come, first served, is the rule in Holland, and has been ever
since the days of Adam and Eve. Prick up your ears, Crooklegs! If my
‘most noble’ cloak, and Herr Wilhelm’s too, are not hanging in their old
places before I count twenty, something will happen here that won’t suit
you. One-two-three--”

The landlord cast a timid, questioning glance at the nobleman, and as
the latter shrugged his shoulders and said audibly: “There is probably
room for more than two cloaks at the fire,” Quatgelat took the Leyden
guests’ wraps from the bench and hung them on two chairs, which he
pushed up to the mantel-piece.

While this was being done, the fencing-master slowly continued to count.
By the time he reached twenty the landlord had finished his task, yet
the irate captain still gave him no peace, but said:

“Now our reckoning, man. Wind and storm are far from pleasant, but
I know even worse company. There’s room enough at the fire for four
cloaks, and in Holland for all the animals in Noah’s ark, except
Spaniards and the allies of Spain. Deuce take it, all the bile in my
liver is stirred. Come to the horses with me, Herr Wilhelm, or there’ll
be mischief.”

The fencing-master, while uttering the last words, stared angrily at
the nobleman with his prominent eyes, which even under ordinary
circumstances, always looked as keen as if they had something marvellous
to examine.

Wibisma pretended not to hear the provoking words, and, as the
fencing-master left the room, walked calmly, with head erect, towards
the musician, bowed courteously, and thanked him for the kindness he had
shown his son the day before.

“You are not in the least indebted to me,” replied Wilhelm
Corneliussohn. “I helped the young nobleman, because it always has an
ill look when numbers attack one.”

“Then allow me to praise this opinion,” replied the baron.

“Opinion,” repeated the musician with a subtle smile, drawing a few
notes on the table.

The baron watched his fingers silently a short time, then advanced
nearer the young man, asking:

“Must everything now relate to political dissensions?”

“Yes,” replied Wilhelm firmly, turning his face with a rapid movement
towards the older man. “In these times ‘yes,’ twenty times ‘yes.’ You
wouldn’t do well to discuss opinions with me, Herr Matanesse.”

“Every man,” replied the nobleman, shrugging his shoulders, “every
man of course believes his own opinion the right one, yet he ought to
respect the views of those who think differently.”

“No, my lord,” cried the musician. “In these times there is but one
opinion for us. I wish to share nothing, not even a drink at the table,
with any man who has Holland blood, and feels differently. Excuse me, my
lord; my travelling companion, as you have unfortunately learned, has an
impatient temper and doesn’t like to wait.”

Wilhelm bowed distantly, waved his hand to Nicolas, approached the
chimney-piece, took the half-dried cloaks on his arm, tossed a coin
on the table and, holding in his hands a covered cage in which several
birds were fluttering, left the room.

The baron gazed after him in silence. The simple words and the young
man’s departure aroused painful emotions. He believed he desired what
was right, yet at this moment a feeling stole over him that a stain
rested on the cause he supported.

It is more endurable to be courted than avoided, and thus an expression
of deep annoyance rested on the nobleman’s pleasant features as he
returned to his son.

Nicolas had not lost a single word uttered by the organist, and the
blood left his ruddy cheeks as he was forced to see this man, whose
appearance had especially won his young heart, turn his back upon his
father as if he were a dishonorable man to be avoided.

The words, with which Janus Dousa had left him the day before, returned
to his mind with great force, and when the baron again seated himself
opposite him, the boy raised his eyes and said hesitatingly, but with
touching earnestness and sincere anxiety:

“Father, what does that mean? Father--are they so wholly wrong, if they
would rather be Hollanders than Spaniards?”

Wibisma looked at his son with surprise and displeasure, and because he
felt his own firmness wavering, and a blustering word often does good
service where there is lack of possibility or inclination to contend
against reasons, he exclaimed more angrily than he had spoken to his son
for years:

“Are you, too, beginning to relish the bait with which Orange lures
simpletons? Another word of that kind, and I’ll show you how malapert
lads are treated. Here, landlord, what’s the meaning of that nonsense on
yonder tree?”

“The people, my lord, the Leyden fools are to blame for the mischief,
not I. They decked the tree out in that ridiculous way, when the troops
stationed in the city during the siege retired. I keep this house as a
tenant of old Herr Van der Does, and dare not have any opinions of my
own, for people must live, but, as truly as I hope for salvation, I’m
loyal to King Philip.”

“Until the Leyden burghers come out here again,” replied Wibisma
bitterly. “Did you keep this inn during the siege?”

“Yes, my lord, the Spaniards had no cause to complain of me, and if a
poor man’s services are not too insignificant for you, they are at your
disposal.”

“Ah! ha!” muttered the baron, gazing attentively at the landlord’s
disagreeable face, whose little eyes glittered very craftily, then
turning to Nicolas, said:

“Go and watch the blackbirds in the window yonder a little while, my
son, I have something to say to the host.”

The youth instantly obeyed and as, instead of looking at the birds, he
gazed after the two enthusiastic supporters of Holland’s liberty, who
were riding along the road leading to Delft, remembered the simile of
fetters that drag men down, and saw rising before his mental vision
the glitter of the gold chain King Philip had sent his father, Nicolas
involuntarily glanced towards him as he stood whispering eagerly with
the landlord. Now he even laid his hand on his shoulder. Was it right
for him to hold intercourse with a man whom he must despise at heart?
Or was he--he shuddered, for the word “traitor,” which one of the
school-boys had shouted in his ears during the quarrel before the
church, returned to his memory.

When the rain grew less violent, the travellers left the inn. The baron
allowed the hideous landlord to kiss his hand at parting, but Nicolas
would not suffer him to touch his.

Few words were exchanged between father and son during the remainder of
their ride to the Hague, but the musician and the fencing-master were
less silent on the way to Delft.

Wilhelm had modestly, as beseemed the younger man, suggested that his
companion had expressed his hostile feelings towards the nobleman too
openly.

“True, perfectly true,” replied Allertssohn, whom his friends called
“Allerts.” “Very true! Temper oh! temper! You don’t suspect, Herr
Wilhelm--But we’ll let it pass.”

“No, speak, Meister.”

“You’ll think no better of me, if I do.”

“Then let us talk of something else.”

“No, Wilhelm. I needn’t be ashamed, no one will take me for a coward.”

The musician laughed, exclaiming: “You a coward! How many Spaniards has
your Brescian sword killed?”

“Wounded, wounded, sir, far oftener than killed,” replied the other. “If
the devil challenges me I shall ask: Foils, sir, or Spanish swords? But
there’s one person I do fear, and that’s my best and at the same time
my worst friend, a Netherlander, like yourself, the man who rides here
beside you. Yes, when rage seizes upon me, when my beard begins to
tremble, my small share of sense flies away as fast as your doves when
you let them go. You don’t know me, Wilhelm.”

“Don’t I? How often must one see you in command and visit you in the
fencing-room?”

“Pooh, pooh--there I’m as quiet as the water in yonder ditch--but when
anything goes against the grain, when--how shall I explain it to you,
without similes?”

“Go on.”

“For instance, when I am obliged to see a sycophant treated as if he
were Sir Upright--”

“So that vexes you greatly?”

“Vexes? No! Then I grow as savage as a tiger, and I ought not to be so,
I ought not. Roland, my foreman, probably likes--”

“Meister, Meister, your beard is beginning to tremble already!”

“What did the Glippers think, when their aristocratic cloaks--”

“The landlord took yours and mine from the fire entirely on his own
responsibility.”

“I don’t care! The crook-legged ape did it to honor the Spanish
sycophant. It enraged me, it was intolerable.”

“You didn’t keep your wrath to yourself, and I was surprised to see how
patiently the baron bore your insults.”

“That’s just it, that’s it!” cried the fencing-master, while his beard
began to twitch violently. “That’s what drove me out of the tavern,
that’s why I took to my heels. That--that--Roland, my fore man.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t you, don’t you? How should you; but I’ll explain. When you’re
as old as I am, young man, you’ll experience it too. There are few
perfectly sound trees in the forest, few horses without a blemish, few
swords without a stain, and scarcely a man who has passed his fortieth
year that has not a worm in his breast. Some gnaw slightly, others
torture with sharp fangs, and mine--mine.--Do you want to cast a glance
in here?”

The fencing-master struck his broad chest as he uttered these words and,
without waiting for his companion’s reply, continued:

“You know me and my life, Herr Wilhelm. What do I do, what do I
practise? Only chivalrous work.

“My life is based upon the sword. Do you know a better blade or surer
hand than mine? Do my soldiers obey me? Have I spared my blood in
fighting before the red walls and towers yonder? No, by my fore man
Roland, no, no, a thousand times no.”

“Who denies it, Meister Allerts? But tell me, what do you mean by your
cry: Roland, my fore man?”

“Another time, Wilhelm; you mustn’t interrupt me now. Hear my story
about where the worm hides in me. So once more: What I do, the calling I
follow, is knightly work, yet when a Wibisma, who learned how to use his
sword from my father, treats me ill and stirs up my bile, if I should
presume to challenge him, as would be my just right, what would he do?
Laugh and ask: ‘What will the passado cost, Fencing-master Allerts? Have
you polished rapiers?’ Perhaps he wouldn’t even answer at all, and we
saw just now how he acts. His glance slipped past me like an eel, and he
had wax in his ears. Whether I reproach, or a cur yelps at him, is all
the same to his lordship. If only a Renneberg or Brederode had been in
my place just now, how quickly Wibisma’s sword would have flown from
its sheath, for he understands how to fight and is no coward. But I--I?
Nobody would willingly allow himself to be struck in the face, yet so
surely as my father was a brave man, even the worst insult could be more
easily borne, than the feeling of being held in too slight esteem to be
able to offer an affront. You see, Wilhelm, when the Glipper looked past
me--”

“Your beard lost its calmness.”

“It’s all very well for you to jest, you don’t know--”

“Yes, yes, Herr Allerts; I understand you perfectly.”

“And do you also understand, why I took myself and my sword out of doors
so quickly?”

“Perfectly; but please stop a moment with me now. The doves are
fluttering so violently; they want air.” The fencing-master stopped his
steed, and while Wilhelm was removing the dripping cloth from the little
cage that rested between him and his horse’s neck, said:

“How can a man trouble himself about such gentle little creatures? If
you want to diminish, in behalf of feathered folk, the time given to
music, tame falcons, that’s a knightly craft, and I can teach you.”

“Let my doves alone,” replied Wilhelm. “They are not so harmless as
people suppose, and have done good service in many a war, which is
certainly chivalrous pastime. Remember Haarlem. There, it’s beginning
to pour again. If my cloak were only not so short; I would like to cover
the doves with it.”

“You certainly look like Goliath in David’s garments.”

“It’s my scholar’s cloak; I put my other on young Wibisma’s shoulders
yesterday.”

“The Spanish green-finch?”

“I told you about the boys’ brawl.”

“Yes, yes. And the monkey kept your cloak?”

“You came for me and wouldn’t wait. They probably sent it back soon
after our departure.”

“And their lordships expect thanks because the young nobleman accepted
it!”

“No, no; the baron expressed his gratitude.”

“But that doesn’t make your cape any longer. Take my cloak, Wilhelm.
I’ve no doves to shelter, and my skin is thicker than yours.”




CHAPTER VII.

A second and third rainy day followed the first one. White mists and
grey fog hung over the meadows. The cold, damp north-west wind drove
heavy clouds together and darkened the sky. Rivulets dashed into the
streets from the gutters on the steep roofs of Leyden; the water in the
canals and ditches grew turbid and rose towards the edges of the banks.
Dripping, freezing men and women hurried past each other without any
form of greeting, while the pair of storks pressed closer to each other
in their nest, and thought of the warm south, lamenting their premature
return to the cold, damp, Netherland plain.

In thoughtful minds the dread of what must inevitably come was
increasing. The rain made anxiety grow as rapidly in the hearts of many
citizens, as the young blades of grain in the fields. Conversations,
that sounded anything but hopeful, took place in many tap-rooms--in
others men were even heard declaring resistance folly, or loudly
demanding the desertion of the cause of the Prince of Orange and
liberty.

Whoever in these days desired to see a happy face in Leyden might have
searched long in vain, and would probably have least expected to find it
in the house of Burgomaster Van der Werff.

Three days had now elapsed since Peter’s departure, nay the fourth
was drawing towards noon, yet the burgomaster had not returned, and no
message, no word of explanation, had reached his family.

Maria had put on her light-blue cloth dress with Mechlin lace in the
square neck, for her husband particularly liked to see her in this gown
and he must surely return to-day.

The spray of yellow wall-flowers on her breast had been cut from the
blooming plant in the window of her room, and Barbara had helped arrange
her thick hair.

It lacked only an hour of noon, when the young wife’s delicate, slender
figure, carrying a white duster in her hand, entered the burgomaster’s
study. Here she stationed herself at the window, from which the pouring
rain streamed in numerous crooked serpentine lines, pressed her forehead
against the panes, and gazed down into the quiet street.

The water was standing between the smooth red tiles of the pavement. A
porter clattered by in heavy wooden shoes, a maid-servant, with a shawl
wrapped around her head, hurried swiftly past, a shoemaker’s boy, with
a pair of boots hanging on his back, jumped from puddle to puddle,
carefully avoiding the dry places;--no horseman appeared.

It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and street; she heard
nothing except the plashing of the rain. Maria could not expect her
husband until the beat of horses’ hoofs was audible; she was not even
gazing into the distance--only dreamily watching the street and the
ceaseless rain.

The room had been thoughtfully heated for the drenched man, whose return
was expected, but Maria felt the cold air through the chinks in the
windows. She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky room, it
seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must always remain, as if no more
bright days could ever come.

Minutes passed before she remembered for what purpose she had entered
the room and began to pass the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the
piles of papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment. At last
she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his
journey.

The portrait of her husband’s first wife hung above the weapons and
sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from
touching it.

To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed
steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been
happy. She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the
pleasant face.

Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy. How much
more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?

This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she
addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still
gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.

Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once
that the eyes moved. A chill ran through her veins, she began to be
afraid, yet could not leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with
dilated eyes.

She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and quicker, and her eyes
seemed to grow keener.

A shadow rested on the dead Eva’s high forehead. Had the artist intended
to depict some oppressive anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that
had settled on the colors?

She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her foot on the seat,
pushing her dress away in doing so. Blushing, as if other eyes than
the painted ones were gazing down upon her, she drew it over the white
stocking, then with a rapid movement mounted the seat. She could now
look directly into the eyes of the portrait. The cloth in Maria’s
trembling hand passed over Eva’s brow, and wiped the shadow from
the rosy flesh. She now blew the dust from the frame and canvas, and
perceived the signature of the artist to whom the picture owed its
origin. “Artjen of Leyden,” he called himself, and his careful hand had
finished even the unimportant parts of the work with minute accuracy.
She well knew the silver chain with the blue turquoises, that rested on
the plump neck. Peter had given it to her as a wedding present, and she
had worn it to the altar; but the little diamond cross suspended
from the middle she had never seen. The gold buckle at Eva’s belt had
belonged to her since her last birthday--it was very badly bent, and the
dull points would scarcely pierce the thick ribbon.

“She had everything when it was new,” she said to herself. “Jewels? What
do I care for them! But the heart, the heart--how much love has she left
in Peter’s heart?”

She did not wish to do so, but constantly heard these words ringing in
her ears, and was obliged to summon up all her self-control, to save
herself from weeping.

“If he would only come, if he would only come!” cried a voice in her
tortured soul.

The door opened, but she did not notice it.

Barbara crossed the threshold, and called her by her name in a tone of
kindly reproach.

Maria started and blushing deeply, said,

“Please give me your hand; I should like to get down. I have finished.
The dust was a disgrace.” When she again stood on the floor, the widow
said, “What red cheeks you have! Listen, my dear sister-in-law, listen
to me, child--!”

Barbara was interrupted in the midst of her admonition, for the knocker
fell heavily on the door, and Maria hurried to the window.

The widow followed, and after a hasty glance into the street, exclaimed:

“That’s Wilhelm Cornieliussohn, the musician. He has been to Delft. I
heard it from his mother. Perhaps he brings news of Peter. I’ll send him
up to you, but he must first tell me below what his tidings are. If you
want me, you’ll find me with Bessie. She is feverish and her eyes ache;
she will have some eruption or a fever.”

Barbara left the room. Maria pressed her hands upon her burning cheeks,
and paced slowly to and fro till the musician knocked and entered.

After the first greeting, the young wife asked eagerly:

“Did you see my husband in Delft?”

“Yes indeed,” replied Wilhelm, “the evening of the day before
yesterday.”

“Then tell me--”

“At once, at once. I bring you a whole pouch full of messages. First
from your mother.”

“Is she well?”

“Well and bright. Worthy Doctor Groot too is hale and hearty.”

“And my husband?”

“I found him with the doctor. Herr Groot sends the kindest remembrances
to you. We had musical entertainments at his home yesterday and the day
be fore. He always has the latest novelties from Italy, and when we try
this motet here--”

“Afterwards, Herr Wilhelm! You must first tell me what my husband--”

“The burgomaster came to the doctor on a message from the Prince. He was
in haste, and could not wait for the singing. It went off admirably. If
you, with your magnificent voice, will only--”

“Pray, Meister Wilhelm?”

“No, dear lady, you ought not to refuse. Doctor Groot says, that when a
girl in Delft, no one could support the tenor like you, and if you, Frau
von Nordwyk, and Herr Van Aken’s oldest daughter--”

“But, my dear Meister!” exclaimed the burgomaster’s wife with increasing
impatience, “I’m not asking about your motets and tabulatures, but my
husband.”

Wilhelm gazed at the young wife’s face with a half-startled,
half-astonished look. Then, smiling at his own awkwardness, he shook his
head, saying in a tone of good-natured repentance:

“Pray forgive me, little things seem unduly important to us when they
completely fill our own souls. One word about your absent husband must
surely sound sweeter to your ears, than all my music. I ought to have
thought of that sooner. So--the burgomaster is well and has transacted
a great deal of business with the Prince. Before he went to Dortrecht
yesterday morning, he gave me this letter and charged me to place it in
your hands with the most loving greetings.”

With these words the musician gave Maria a letter. She hastily took it
from his hand, saying:

“No offence, Herr Wilhelm, but we’ll discuss your motet to-morrow, or
whenever you choose; to-day--”

“To-day your time belongs to this letter,” interrupted Wilhelm. “That
is only natural. The messenger has performed his commission, and the
music-master will try his fortune with you another time.”

As soon as the young man had gone, Maria went to her room, sat down at
the window, hurriedly opened her husband’s letter and read:

   “MY DEAR AND FAITHFUL WIFE!

   “Meister Wilhelm Corneliussohn, of Leyden, will bring you this
   letter. I am well, but it was hard for me to leave you on the
   anniversary of our wedding-clay. The weather is very bad. I found
   the Prince in sore affliction, but we don’t give up hope, and if God
   helps us and every man does his duty, all may yet be well. I am
   obliged to ride to Dortrecht to-day. I have an important object to
   accomplish there. Have patience, for several days must pass before
   my return.

   “If the messenger from the council inquires, give him the papers
   lying on the right-hand side of the writing-table under the smaller
   leaden weight. Remember me to Barbara and the children. If money
   is needed, ask Van Hout in my name for the rest of the sum due me;
   he knows about it. If you feel lonely, visit his wife or Frail von
   Nordwyk; they would be glad to see you. Buy as much meal, butter,
   cheese, and smoked meat, as is possible. We don’t know what may
   happen. Take Barbara’s advice! Relying upon your obedience,

               “Your faithful husband,

                  “PETER ADRIANSSOHN VAN DER WERFF.”

Maria read this letter at first hastily, then slowly, sentence by
sentence, to the end. Disappointed, troubled, wounded, she folded it,
drew the wall-flowers from the bosom of her dress--she knew not why--and
flung them into the peat-box by the chimney-piece. Then she opened her
chest, took out a prettily-carved box, placed it on the table, and laid
her husband’s letter inside.

Long after it had found a place with other papers, Maria still stood
before the casket, gazing thoughtfully at its contents.

At last she laid her hand on the lid to close it; but hesitated and took
up a packet of letters that had lain amid several gold and silver coins,
given by godmothers and godfathers, modest trinkets, and a withered
rose.

Drawing a chair up to the table, the young wife seated herself and began
to read. She knew these letters well enough. A noble, promising youth
had addressed them to her sister, his betrothed bride. They were dated
from Jena, whither he had gone to complete his studies in jurisprudence.
Every word expressed the lover’s ardent longing, every line was pervaded
by the passion that had filled the writer’s heart. Often the prose of
the young scholar, who as a pupil of Doctor Groot had won his bride in
Delft, rose to a lofty flight.

While reading, Maria saw in imagination Jacoba’s pretty face, and the
handsome, enthusiastic countenance of her bridegroom. She remembered
their gay wedding, her brother-in-law’s impetuous friend, so lavishly
endowed with every gift of nature, who had accompanied him to Holland to
be his groomsman, and at parting had given her the rose which lay before
her in the little casket. No voice had ever suited hers so well; she
had never heard language so poetical from any other lips, never had eyes
that sparkled like the young Thuringian noble’s looked into hers.

After the wedding Georg von Dornberg returned home and the young couple
went to Haarlem. She had heard nothing from the young foreigner, and
her sister and her husband were soon silenced forever. Like most of the
inhabitants of Haarlem, they were put to death by the Spanish destroyers
at the capture of the noble, hapless city. Nothing was left of her
beloved sister except a faithful memory of her, and her betrothed
bridegroom’s letters, which she now held in her hand.

They expressed love, the true, lofty love, that can speak with the
tongues of angels and move mountains. There lay her husband’s letter.
Miserable scrawl! She shrank from opening it again, as she laid the
beloved mementoes back into the box, yet her breast heaved as she
thought of Peter. She knew too that she loved him, and that his faithful
heart belonged to her. But she was not satisfied, she was not happy, for
he showed her only tender affection or paternal kindness, and she wished
to be loved differently. The pupil, nay the friend of the learned Groot,
the young wife who had grown up in the society of highly educated men,
the enthusiastic patriot, felt that she was capable of being more,
far more to her husband, than he asked. She had never expected gushing
emotions or high-strung phrases from the grave man engaged in vigorous
action, but believed he would understand all the lofty, noble sentiments
stirring in her soul, permit her to share his struggles and become the
partner of his thoughts and feelings. The meagre letter received to-day
again taught her that her anticipations were not realized.

He had been a faithful friend of her father, now numbered with the dead.
Her brother-in-law too had attached himself, with all the enthusiasm of
youth, to the older, fully-matured champion of liberty, Van der Werff.
When he had spoken of Peter to Maria, it was always with expressions of
the warmest admiration and love. Peter had come to Delft soon after her
father’s death and the violent end of the young wedded pair, and when
he expressed his sympathy and strove to comfort her, did so in strong,
tender words, to which she could cling, as if to an anchor, in the
misery of her heart. The valiant citizen of Leyden came to Delft more
and more frequently, and was always a guest at Doctor Groot’s house.
When the men were engaged in consultation, Maria was permitted to fill
their glasses and be present at their conferences. Words flew to and fro
and often seemed to her neither clear nor wise; but what Van der Werff
said was always sensible, and a child could understand his plain,
vigorous speech. He appeared to the young girl like an oak-tree among
swaying willows. She knew of many of his journeys, undertaken at the
peril of his life, in the service of the Prince and his native land, and
awaited their result with a throbbing heart.

More than once in those days, the thought had entered her mind that it
would be delightful to be borne through life in the strong arms of this
steadfast man. Then he extended these arms, and she yielded to his wish
as proudly and happily as a squire summoned by the king to be made a
knight. She now remembered this by-gone time, and every hope with which
she had accompanied him to Leyden rose vividly before her soul.

Her newly-wedded husband had promised her no spring, but a pleasant
summer and autumn by his side. She could not help thinking of this
comparison, and what entirely different things from those she had
anticipated, the union with him had offered to this day. Tumult,
anxiety, conflict, a perpetual alternation of hard work and excessive
fatigue, this was his life, the life he had summoned her to share at his
side, without even showing any desire to afford her a part in his cares
and labors. Matters ought not, should not go on so. Everything that had
seemed to her beautiful and pleasant in her parents’ home--was being
destroyed here. Music and poetry, that had elevated her soul, clever
conversation, that had developed her mind, were not to be found here.
Barbara’s kind feelings could never supply the place of these lost
possessions; for her husband’s love she would have resigned them
all--but what had become of this love?

With bitter emotions, she replaced the casket in the chest and obeyed
the summons to dinner, but found no one at the great table except Adrian
and the servants. Barbara was watching Bessie.

Never had she seemed to herself so desolate, so lonely, so useless as
to-day. What could she do here? Barbara ruled in kitchen and cellar, and
she--she only stood in the way of her husband’s fulfilling his duties to
the city and state.

Such were her thoughts, when the knocker again struck the door. She
approached the window. It was the doctor. Bessie had grown worse and
she, her mother, had not even inquired for the little one.

“The children, the children!” she murmured; her sorrowful features
brightened, and her heart grew lighter as she said to herself:

“I promised Peter to treat them as if they were my own, and I will
fulfil the duties I have undertaken.” Full of joyous excitement, she
entered the sick-room, hastily closing the door behind her. Doctor
Bontius looked at her with a reproving glance, and Barbara said:

“Gently, gently! Bessie is just sleeping a little.” Maria approached the
bed, but the physician waved her back, saying:

“Have you had the purple-fever?”

“No.”

“Then you ought not to enter this room again. No other help is needed
where Frau Barbara nurses.”

The burgomaster’s wife made no reply, and returned to the entry. Her
heart was so heavy, so unutterably heavy. She felt like a stranger in
her husband’s house. Some impulse urged her to go out of doors, and
as she wrapped her mantle around her and went downstairs, the smell of
leather rising from the bales piled in layers on the lower story, which
she had scarcely noticed before, seemed unendurable. She longed for
her mother, her friends in Delft, and her quiet, cheerful home. For
the first time she ventured to call herself unhappy and, while walking
through the streets with downcast eyes against the wind, struggled
vainly to resist some mysterious, gloomy power, that compelled her
to minutely recall everything that had resulted differently from her
expectations.




CHAPTER VIII.

After the musician had left the burgomaster’s house, he went to young
Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma’s aunt to get his cloak, which had not been
returned to him. He did not usually give much heed to his dress, yet he
was glad that the rain kept people in the house, for the outgrown wrap
on his shoulders was by no means pleasing in appearance. Wilhelm must
certainly have looked anything but well-clad, for as he stood in old
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s spacious, stately hall, the steward Belotti
received him as patronizingly as if he were a beggar.

But the Neopolitan, in whose mouth the vigorous Dutch sounded like the
rattling in the throat of a chilled singer, speedily took a different
tone when Wilhelm, in excellent Italian, quietly explained the object of
his visit. Nay, at the sweet accents of his native tongue, the servant’s
repellent demeanor melted into friendly, eager welcome. He was beginning
to speak of his home to Wilhelm, but the musician made him curt replies
and asked him to get his cloak.

Belotti now led him courteously into a small room at the side of the
great hall, took off his cloak, and then went upstairs. As minute after
minute passed, until at last a whole quarter of an hour elapsed, and
neither servant nor cloak appeared, the young man lost his patience,
though it was not easily disturbed, and when the door at last opened
serious peril threatened the leaden panes on which he was drumming
loudly with his fingers. Wilhelm doubtless heard it, yet he drummed with
redoubled vehemence, to show the Italian that the time was growing long
to him. But he hastily withdrew his fingers from the glass, for a girl’s
musical voice said behind him in excellent Dutch:

“Have you finished your war-song, sir? Belotti is bringing your cloak.”

Wilhelm had turned and was gazing in silent bewilderment into the face
of the young noblewoman, who stood directly in front of him. These
features were not unfamiliar, and yet--years do not make even a goddess
younger, and mortals increase in height and don’t grow smaller; but the
lady whom he thought he saw before him, whom he had known well in the
eternal city and never forgotten, had been older and taller than the
young girl, who so strikingly resembled her and seemed to take little
pleasure in the young man’s surprised yet inquiring glance. With a
haughty gesture she beckoned to the steward, saying in Italian:

“Give the gentleman his cloak, Belotti, and tell him I came to beg him
to pardon your forgetfulness.”

With these words Henrica Van Hoogstraten turned towards the door, but
Wilhelm took two hasty strides after her, exclaiming:

“Not yet, not yet, Fraulein! I am the one to apologize. But if you have
ever been amazed by a resemblance--”

“Anything but looking like other people!” cried the girl with a
repellent gesture.

“Ah, Fraulein, yet--”

“Let that pass, let that pass,” interrupted Henrica in so irritated a
tone that the musician looked at her in surprise. “One sheep looks just
like another, and among a hundred peasants twenty have the same face.
All wares sold by the dozen are cheap.”

As soon as Wilhelm heard reasons given, the quiet manner peculiar to him
returned, and he answered modestly:

“But nature also forms the most beautiful things in pairs. Think of the
eyes in the Madonna’s face.”

“Are you a Catholic?”

“A Calvinist, Fraulein.”

“And devoted to the Prince’s cause?”

“Say rather, the cause of liberty.”

“That accounts for the drumming of the war-song.”

“It was first a gentle gavotte, but impatience quickened the time. I am
a musician, Fraulein.”

“But probably no drummer. The poor panes!”

“They are an instrument like any other, and in playing we seek to
express what we feel.”

“Then accept my thanks for not breaking them to pieces.”

“That wouldn’t have been beautiful, Fraulein, and art ceases when
ugliness begins.”

“Do you think the song in your cloak--it dropped on the ground and Nico
picked it up--beautiful or ugly?”

“This one or the other?”

“I mean the Beggar-song.”

“It is fierce, but no more ugly than the roaring of the storm.”

“It is repulsive, barbarous, revolting.”

“I call it strong, overmastering in its power.”

“And this other melody?”

“Spare me an answer; I composed it myself. Can you read notes,
Fraulein?”

“A little.”

“And did my attempt displease you?”

“Not at all, but I find dolorous passages in this choral, as in all the
Calvinist hymns.”

“It depends upon how they are sung.”

“They are certainly intended for the voices of the shopkeepers’ wives
and washerwomen in your churches.”

“Every hymn, if it is only sincerely felt, will lend wings to the souls
of the simple folk who sing it; and whatever ascends to Heaven from the
inmost depths of the heart, can hardly displease the dear God, to whom
it is addressed. And then--”

“Well?”

“If these notes are worth being preserved, it may happen that a
matchless choir--”

“Will sing them to you, you think?”

“No, Fraulein; they have fulfilled their destination if they are once
nobly rendered. I would fain not be absent, but that wish is far less
earnest than the other.”

“How modest!”

“I think the best enjoyment in creating is had in anticipation.”

Henrica gazed at the artist with a look of sympathy, and said with a
softer tone in her musical voice:

“I am sorry for you, Meister. Your music pleases me; why should I deny
it? In many passages it appeals to the heart, but how it will be spoiled
in your churches! Your heresy destroys every art. The works of the great
artists are a horror to you, and the noble music that has unfolded here
in the Netherlands will soon fare no better.”

“I think I may venture to believe the contrary.”

“Wrongly, Meister, wrongly, for if your cause triumphs, which may the
Virgin forbid, there will soon be nothing in Holland except piles
of goods, workshops, and bare churches, from which even singing and
organ-playing will soon be banished.”

“By no means, Fraulein. Little Athens first became the home of the arts,
after she had secured her liberty in the war against the Persians.”

“Athens and Leyden!” she answered scornfully. “True, there are owls on
the tower of Pancratius. But where shall we find the Minerva?”

While Henrica rather laughed than spoke these words, her name was called
for the third time by a shrill female voice. She now interrupted herself
in the middle of a sentence, saying:

“I must go. I will keep these notes.”

“You will honor me by accepting them; perhaps you will allow me to bring
you others.”

“Henrica!” the voice again called from the stairs, and the young lady
answered hastily:

“Give Belotti whatever you choose, but soon, for I shan’t stay here much
longer.”

Wilhelm gazed after her. She walked no less quickly and firmly through
the wide hall and up the stairs, than she had spoken, and again he was
vividly reminded of his friend in Rome.

The old Italian had also followed Henrica with his eyes. As she vanished
at the last bend of the broad steps, he shrugged his shoulders, turned
to the musician and said, with an expression of honest sympathy:

“The young lady isn’t well. Always in a tumult; always like a loaded
pistol, and these terrible headaches too! She was different when she
came here.”

“Is she ill?”

“My mistress won’t see it,” replied the servant. “But what the cameriera
and I see, we see. Now red--now pale, no rest at night, at table she
scarcely eats a chicken-wing and a leaf of salad.”

“Does the doctor share your anxiety?”

“The doctor? Doctor Fleuriel isn’t here. He moved to Ghent when the
Spaniards came, and since then my mistress will have nobody but the
barber who bleeds her. The doctors here are devoted to the Prince of
Orange and are all heretics. There, she is calling again. I’ll send the
cloak to your house, and if you ever feel inclined to speak my language,
just knock here. That calling--that everlasting calling! The young lady
suffers from it too.”

When Wilhelm entered the street, it was only raining very slightly. The
clouds were beginning to scatter, and from a patch of blue sky the
sun was shining brightly down on Nobelstrasse. A rainbow shimmered in
variegated hues above the roofs, but to-day the musician had no eyes
for the beautiful spectacle. The bright light in the wet street did not
charm him. The hot rays of the day-star were not lasting, for “they drew
rain.” All that surrounded him seemed confused and restless. Beside a
beautiful image which he treasured in the sanctuary of his memories,
only allowing his mind to dwell upon it in his happiest hours, sought to
intrude. His real diamond was in danger of being exchanged for a stone,
whose value he did not know. With the old, pure harmony blended another
similar one, but in a different key. How could he still think of
Isabella, without remembering Henrica! At least he had not heard the
young lady sing, so his recollection of Isabella’s songs remained
unclouded. He blamed himself because, obeying an emotion of vanity, he
had promised to send new songs to the proud young girl, the friend of
Spain. He had treated Herr Matanesse Van Wibisma rudely on account of
his opinions, but sought to approach her, who laughed at what he prized
most highly, because she was a woman, and it was sweet to hear his work
praised by beautiful lips. “Hercules throws the club aside and sits down
at the distaff, when Omphale beckons, and the beautiful Esther and the
daughter of Herodias--” murmured Wilhelm indignantly. He felt sorely
troubled, and longed for his quiet attic chamber beside the dove-cote.

“Something unpleasant has happened to him in Delft,” thought his father.

“Why doesn’t he relish his fried flounders to-day?” asked his mother,
when he had left them after dinner. Each felt that something oppressed
the pride and favorite of the household, but did not attempt to discover
the cause; they knew the moods to which he was sometimes subject for
half a day.

After Wilhelm had fed his doves, he went to his room, where he paced
restlessly to and fro. Then he seized his violin and wove all the
melodies be had heard from Isabella’s lips into one. His music had
rarely sounded so soft, and then so fierce and passionate, and his
mother, who heard it in the kitchen, turned the twirling-stick faster
and faster, then thrust it into the firmly-tied dough, and rubbing her
hands on her apron, murmured:

“How it wails and exults! If it relieves his heart, in God’s name let
him do it, but cat-gut is dear and it will cost at least two strings.”

Towards evening Wilhelm was obliged to go to the drill of the military
corps to which he belonged. His company was ordered to mount guard at
the Hoogewoort Gate. As he marched through Nobelstrasse with it, he
heard the low, clear melody of a woman’s voice issuing from an open
window of the Hoogstraten mansion. He listened, and noticing with a
shudder how much Henrica’s voice--for the singer must be the young
lady--resembled Isabella’s, ordered the drummer to beat the drum.

The next morning a servant came from the Hoogstraten house and
gave Wilhelm a note, in which he was briefly requested to come to
Nobelstrasse at two o’clock in the afternoon, neither earlier nor later.

He did not wish to say “yes”--he could not say “no,” and went to the
house at the appointed hour. Henrica was awaiting him in the little room
adjoining the hall. She looked graver than the day before, while heavier
shadows under her eyes and the deep flush on her cheeks reminded Wilhelm
of Belotti’s fears for her health. After returning his greeting, she
said without circumlocution, and very rapidly:

“I must speak to you. Sit down. To be brief, the way you greeted me
yesterday awakened strange thoughts. I must strongly resemble some other
woman, and you met her in Italy. Perhaps you are reminded of some one
very near to me, of whom I have lost all trace. Answer me honestly, for
I do not ask from idle curiosity. Where did you meet her?”

“In Lugano. We drove to Milan with the same vetturino, and afterwards I
found her again in Rome and saw her daily for months.”

“Then you know her intimately. Do you still think the resemblance
surprising, after having seen me for the second time?”

“Very surprising.”

“Then I must have a double. Is she a native of this country?”

“She called herself an Italian, but she understood Dutch, for she has
often turned the pages of my books and followed the conversation I had
with young artists from our home. I think she is a German lady of noble
family.”

“An adventuress then. And her name?”

“Isabella--but I think no one would be justified in calling her an
adventuress.”

“Was she married?”

“There was something matronly in her majestic appearance, yet she never
spoke of a husband. The old Italian woman, her duenna, always called her
Donna Isabella, but she possessed little more knowledge of her past than
I.”

“Is that good or evil?”

“Nothing at all, Fraulein.”

“And what led her to Rome?”

“She practised the art of singing, of which she was mistress; but did
not cease studying, and made great progress in Rome. I was permitted to
instruct her in counterpoint.”

“And did she appear in public as a singer?”

“Yes and no. A distinguished foreign prelate was her patron, and his
recommendation opened every door, even the Palestrina’s. So the church
music at aristocratic weddings was entrusted to her, and she did not
refuse to sing at noble houses, but never appeared for pay. I know that,
for she would not allow any one else to play her accompaniments.
She liked my music, and so through her I went into many aristocratic
houses.”

“Was she rich?”

“No, Fraulein. She had beautiful dresses and brilliant jewels, but was
compelled to economize. Remittances of money came to her at times from
Florence, but the gold pieces slipped quickly through her fingers, for
though she lived plainly and eat scarcely enough for a bird, while her
delicate strength required stronger food, she was lavish to imprudence
if she saw poor artists in want, and she knew most of them, for she did
not shrink from sitting with them over their wine in my company.”

“With artists and musicians?”

“Mere artists of noble sentiments. At times she surpassed them all in
her overflowing mirth.”

“At times?”

“Yes, only at times, for she had also sorrowful, pitiably sorrowful
hours and days, but as sunshine and shower alternate in an April day,
despair and extravagant gayety ruled her nature by turns.”

“A strange character. Do you know her end?”

“No, Fraulein. One evening she received a letter from Milan, which
must have contained bad news, and the next day vanished without any
farewell.”

“And you did not try to follow her?”

Wilhelm blushed, and answered in an embarrassed tone:

“I had no right to do so, and just after her departure I fell
sick--dangerously sick.”

“You loved her?”

“Fraulein, I must beg you--”

“You loved her! And did she return your affection?”

“We have known each other only since yesterday, Fraulein von
Hoogstraten.”

“Pardon me! But if you value my desire, we shall not have seen each
other for the last time, though my double is undoubtedly a different
person from the one I supposed. Farewell till we meet again. You hear,
that calling never ends. You have aroused an interest in your strange
friend, and some other time must tell me more about her. Only this one
question: Can a modest maiden talk of her with you without disgrace?”

“Certainly, if you do not shrink from speaking of a noble lady who had
no other protector than herself.”

“And you, don’t forget yourself!” cried Henrica, leaving the room.

The musician walked thoughtfully towards home. Was Isabella a relative
of this young girl? He had told Henrica almost all he knew of her
external circumstances, and this perhaps gave the former the same right
to call her an adventuress, that many in Rome had assumed. The word
wounded him, and Henrica’s inquiry whether he loved the stranger
disturbed him, and appeared intrusive and unseemly. Yes, he had felt an
ardent love for her; ay, he had suffered deeply because he was no more
to her than a pleasant companion and reliable friend. It had cost him
struggles enough to conceal his feelings, and he knew, that but for the
dread of repulse and scorn, he would have yielded and revealed them to
her. Old wounds in his heart opened afresh, as he recalled the time she
suddenly left Rome without a word of farewell. After barely recovering
from a severe illness, he had returned home pale and dispirited, and
months elapsed ere he could again find genuine pleasure in his art. At
first, the remembrance of her contained nothing save bitterness, but
now, by quiet, persistent effort, he had succeeded, not in attaining
forgetfulness, but in being able to separate painful emotions from
the pure and exquisite joy of remembering her. To-day the old struggle
sought to begin afresh, but he was not disposed to yield, and did not
cease to summon Isabella’s image, in all its beauty, before his soul.

Henrica returned to her aunt in a deeply-agitated mood. Was the
adventuress of whom Wilhelm had spoken, the only creature whom she loved
with all the ardor of her passionate soul? Was Isabella her lost sister?
Many incidents were opposed to it, yet it was possible. She tortured
herself with questions, and the less peace her aunt gave her, the more
unendurable her headache became, the more plainly she felt that the
fever, against whose relaxing power she had struggled for days, would
conquer her.




CHAPTER IX.

On the evening of the third day after Wilhelm’s interview with Henrica,
his way led him through Nobelstrasse past the Hoogstraten mansion.

Ere reaching it, he saw two gentlemen, preceded by a servant carrying a
lantern, cross the causeway towards it.

Wilhelm’s attention was attracted. The servant now seized the knocker,
and the light of his lantern fell on the men’s faces. Neither was
unfamiliar to him.

The small, delicate old man, with the peaked hat and short black velvet
cloak, was Abbe Picard, a gay Parisian, who had come to Leyden ten years
before and gave French lessons in the wealthy families of the city.
He had been Wilhelm’s teacher too, but the musician’s father, the
Receiver-General, would have nothing to do with the witty abbe; for he
was said to have left his beloved France on account of some questionable
transactions, and Herr Cornelius scented in him a Spanish spy. The other
gentleman, a grey-haired, unusually stout man, of middle height, who
required a great deal of cloth for his fur-bordered cloak, was Signor
Lamperi, the representative of the great Italian mercantile house of
Bonvisi in Antwerp, who was in the habit of annually coming to Leyden on
business for a few weeks with the storks and swallows, and was a welcome
guest in every tap-room as the inexhaustible narrator of funny stories.
Before these two men entered the house, they were joined by a third,
preceded by two servants carrying lanterns. A wide cloak enveloped
his tall figure; he too stood on the threshold of old age and was no
stranger to Wilhelm, for the Catholic Monseigneur Gloria, who often came
to Leyden from Haarlem, was a patron of the noble art of music, and when
the young man set out on his journey to Italy had provided him, spite of
his heretical faith, with valuable letters of introduction.

Wilhelm, as the door closed behind the three gentlemen, continued his
way. Belotti had told him the day before that the young lady seemed
very ill, but since her aunt was receiving guests, Henrica was doubtless
better.

The first story in the Hoogstraten mansion was brightly lighted, but in
the second a faint, steady glow streamed into Nobelstrasse from a single
window, while she for whom the lamp burned sat beside a table, her eyes
sparkling with a feverish glitter, as she pressed her forehead against
the marble top. Henrica was entirely alone in the wide, lofty room her
aunt had assigned her. Behind curtains of thick faded brocade was her
bedstead, a heavy structure of enormous width. The other articles of
furniture were large and shabby, but had once been splendid. Every
chair, every table looked as if it had been taken from some deserted
banqueting-hall. Nothing really necessary was lacking in the apartment,
but it was anything but home-like and cosey, and no one would ever have
supposed a young girl occupied it, had it not been for a large gilt harp
that leaned against the long, hard couch beside the fireplace.

Henrica’s head was burning but, though she had wrapped a shawl around
her lower limbs, her feet were freezing on the uncarpeted stone floor.

A short time after the three gentlemen had entered her aunt’s house, a
woman’s figure ascended the stairs leading from the first to the second
story. Henrica’s over-excited senses perceived the light tread of
the satin shoes and the rustle of the silk train, long before the
approaching form had reached the room, and with quickened breathing, she
sat erect.

A thin hand, without any preliminary knock, now opened the door and old
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten walked up to her niece.

The elderly dame had once been beautiful, now and at this hour she
presented a strange, unpleasing appearance.

The thin, bent figure was attired in a long trailing robe of heavy pink
silk. The little head almost disappeared in the ruff, a large structure
of immense height and width. Long chains of pearls and glittering gems
hung on the sallow skin displayed by the open neck of her dress, and
on the false, reddish-yellow curls rested a roll of light-blue velvet
decked with ostrich plumes. A strong odor of various fragrant essences
preceded her. She herself probably found them somewhat overpowering, for
her large glittering fan was in constant motion and fluttered violently,
when in answer to her curt: “Quick, quick,” Henrica returned a resolute
“no, ‘ma tante.’”

The old lady, however, was not at all disconcerted by the refusal,
but merely repeated her “Quick, quick,” more positively, adding as an
important reason:

“Monseigneur has come and wants to hear you.”

“He does me great honor,” replied the young girl, “great honor, but how
often must I repeat: I will not come.”

“Is it allowable to ask why not, my fair one?” said the old lady.

“Because I am not fit for your society,” cried Henrica vehemently,
“because my head aches and my eyes burn, because I can’t sing to-day,
and because--because--because--I entreat you, leave me in peace.”

Old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten let her fan sink by her side, and said
coolly:

“Were you singing two hours ago--yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Then your headache can’t be so very bad, and Denise will dress you.”

“If she comes, I’ll send her away. When I just took the harp, I did so
to sing the pain away. It was relieved for a few minutes, but now my
temples are throbbing with twofold violence.”

“Excuses.”

“Believe what you choose. Besides--even if I felt better at this moment
than a squirrel in the woods. I wouldn’t go down to see the gentlemen. I
shall stay here. I have given my word, and I am a Hoogstraten as well as
you.”

Henrica had risen, and her eyes flashed with a gloomy fire at her
oppressor. The old lady waved her fan faster, and her projecting chin
trembled. Then she said curtly:

“Your word of honor! So you won’t! You won’t!”

“Certainly not,” cried the young girl with undutiful positiveness.

“Everybody must have his way,” replied the old lady, turning towards the
door. “What is too wilful is too wilful. Your father won’t thank you for
this.” With these words Fraulein Van Hoogstraten raised her long train
and approached the door. There she paused, and again glanced enquiringly
at Henrica. The latter doubtless noticed her aunt’s hesitation, but
without heeding the implied threat intentionally turned her back.

As soon as the door closed, the young girl sank back into her chair,
pressed her forehead against the marble slab and let it remain there
a long time. Then she rose as suddenly and hastily as if obeying some
urgent summons, raised the lid of her trunk, tossed the stockings,
bodices and shoes, that came into her way, out on the floor, and did
not rise until she had found a few sheets of writing-paper which she
had laid, before leaving her father’s castle, among the rest of her
property.

As she rose from her kneeling posture, she was seized with giddiness,
but still kept her feet, carried to the table first the white sheets and
a portfolio, then the large inkstand that had already stood several days
in her room, and seated herself beside it.

Leaning far back in her chair, she began to write. The book that served
as a desk lay on her knee, the paper on the book. Creaking and pausing,
the goosequill made large, stiff letters on the white surface. Henrica
was not skilled in writing, but to-day it must have been unspeakably
difficult for her; her high forehead became covered with perspiration,
her mouth was distorted by pain, and whenever she had finished a few
lines, she closed her eyes or drank greedily from the water-pitcher that
stood beside her.

The large room was perfectly still, but the peace that surrounded her
was often disturbed by strange noises and tones, that rose from the
dining-hall directly under her chamber. The clinking of glasses, shrill
tittering, loud, deep laughter, single bars of a dissolute love-song,
cheers, and then the sharp rattle of a shattered wine glass reached her
in mingled sounds. She did not wish to hear it, but could not escape
and clenched her white teeth indignantly. Yet meantime the pen did not
wholly stop.

She wrote in broken, or long, disconnected sentences, almost
incoherently involved. Sometimes there were gaps, sometimes the same
word was twice or thrice repeated. The whole resembled a letter written
by a lunatic, yet every line, every stroke of the pen, expressed the
same desire uttered with passionate longing: “Take me away from here!
Take me away from this woman and this house!”

The epistle was addressed to her father. She implored him to rescue
her from this place, come or send for her. “Her uncle, Matanesse Van
Wibisma,” she said, “seemed to be a sluggish messenger; he had probably
enjoyed the evenings at her aunt’s, which filled her, Henrica, with
loathing. She would go out into the world after her sister, if her
father compelled her to stay here.” Then she began a description of her
aunt and her life. The picture of the days and nights she had now spent
for weeks with the old lady, presented in vivid characters a mixture of
great and petty troubles, external and mental humiliations.

Only too often the same drinking and carousing had gone on below as
to-day-Henrica had always been compelled to join her aunt’s guests,
elderly dissolute men of French or Italian origin and easy morals. While
describing these conventicles, the blood crimsoned her flushed cheeks
still more deeply, and the long strokes of the pen grew heavier and
heavier. What the abbe related and her aunt laughed at, what the Italian
screamed and Monseigneur smilingly condemned with a slight shake of
the head, was so shamelessly bold that she would have been defiled by
repeating the words. Was she a respectable girl or not? She would rather
hunger and thirst, than be present at such a banquet again. If the
dining-room was empty, other unprecedented demands were made upon
Henrica, for then her aunt, who could not endure to be alone a moment,
was sick and miserable, and she was obliged to nurse her. That she
gladly and readily served the suffering, she wrote, she had sufficiently
proved by her attendance on the village children when they had the
smallpox, but if her aunt could not sleep she was compelled to watch
beside her, hold her hand, and listen until morning as she moaned,
whined and prayed, sometimes cursing herself and sometimes the
treacherous world. She, Henrica, had come to the house strong and well,
but so much disgust and anger, such constant struggling to control
herself had robbed her of her health.

The young girl had written until midnight. The letters became more and
more irregular and indistinct, the lines more crooked, and with the last
words: “My head, my poor head! You will see that I am losing my senses.
I beseech you, I beseech you, my dear, stern father, take me home. I
have again heard something about Anna--” her eyes grew dim, her pen
dropped from her hand, and she fell back in the chair unconscious.

There she lay, until the last laugh and sound of rattling glass had died
away below, and her aunt’s guests had left the house.

Denise, the cameriera, noticed the light in the room, entered, and after
vainly endeavoring to rouse Henrica, called her mistress.

The latter followed the maid, muttering as she ascended the stairs:

“Fallen asleep, found the time hang heavy--that’s all! She might have
been lively and laughed with us! Stupid race! ‘Men of butter,’ King
Philip says. That wild Lamperi was really impertinent to-night, and the
abbe said things--things--”

The old lady’s large eyes were sparkling vinously, and her fan waved
rapidly to and fro to cool the flush on her cheeks.

She now stood opposite to Henrica, called her, shook her and sprinkled
her with perfumed water from the large shell, set in gold, which hung as
an essence bottle from her belt. When her niece only muttered incoherent
words, she ordered the maid to bring her medicine-chest.

Denise had gone and Fraulein Van Hoogstraten now perceived Henrica’s
letter, raised it close to her eyes, read page after page with
increasing indignation, and at last tossed it on the floor and tried to
shake her niece awake; but in vain.

Meantime Belotti had been informed of Henrica’s serious illness and, as
he liked the young girl, sent for a physician on his own responsibility,
and instead of the family priest summoned Father Damianus. Then he went
to the sick girl’s chamber.

Even before he crossed the threshold, the old lady in the utmost
excitement, exclaimed:

“Belotti, what do you say now, Belotti? Sickness in the house, perhaps
contagious sickness, perhaps the plague.”

“It seems to be only a fever,” replied the Italian soothingly. “Come,
Denise, we will carry the young lady to the bed.

“The doctor will soon be here.”

“The doctor?” cried the old lady, striking her fan on the marble top of
the table. “Who permitted you, Belotti--”

“We are Christians,” interrupted the servant, not without dignity.

“Very well, very well,” she cried. “Do what you please, call whom you
choose, but Henrica can’t stay here. Contagion in the house, the plague,
a black tablet.”

“Excellenza is disturbing herself unnecessarily. Let us first hear what
the doctor says.”

“I won’t hear him; I can’t bear the plague and the small-pox. Go down
at once, Belotti, and have the sedan-chair prepared. The old chevalier’s
room in the rear building is empty.”

“But, Excellenza, it’s gloomy, and so damp that the north wall is
covered with mould.”

“Then let it be aired and cleaned. What does this delay mean? You have
only to obey. Do you understand?”

“The chevalier’s room isn’t fit for my mistress’s sick niece,” replied
Belotti civilly, but resolutely.

“Isn’t it? And you know exactly?” asked his mistress scornfully. “Go
down, Denise, and order the sedan-chair to be brought up. Have you
anything more to say, Belotti?”

“Yes, Padrona,” replied the Italian, in a trembling voice. “I beg your
excellenza to dismiss me.”

“Dismiss you from my service?”

“With your excellenza’s permission, yes--from your service.”

The old woman started, clasped her hands tightly upon her fan, and said:

“You are irritable, Belotti.”

“No, Padrona, but I am old and dread the misfortune of being ill in this
house.”

Fraulein Van Hoogstraten shrugged her shoulders and turning to her maid,
cried:

“The sedan-chair, Denise. You are dismissed, Belotti.”




CHAPTER X.

The night, on which sorrow and sickness had entered the Hoogstraten
mansion, was followed by a beautiful morning. Holland again became
pleasant to the storks, that with a loud, joyous clatter flew clown into
the meadows on which the sun was shining. It was one of those days the
end of April often bestows on men, as if to show them that they render
her too little, her successor too much honor. April can boast that
in her house is born the spring, whose vigor is only strengthened and
beauty developed by her blooming heir.

It was Sunday, and whoever on such a day, while the bells are ringing,
wanders in Holland over sunny paths, through flowery meadows where
countless cattle, woolly cheep, and idle horses are grazing, meeting
peasants in neat garments, peasant women with shining gold ornaments
under snow-white lace caps, citizens in gay attire and children released
from school, can easily fancy that even nature wears a holiday garb
and glitters in brighter green, more brilliant blue, and more varied
ornaments of flowers than on work-days.

A joyous Sunday mood doubtless filled the minds of the burghers, who
to-day were out of doors on foot, in large over-crowded wooden wagons,
or gaily-painted boats on the Rhine, to enjoy the leisure hours of the
day of rest, eat country bread, yellow butter, and fresh cheese, or
drink milk and cool beer, with their wives and children.

The organist, Wilhelm, had long since finished playing in the church,
but did not wander out into the fields with companions of his own age,
for he liked to use such days for longer excursions, in which walking
was out of the question.

They bore him on the wings of the wind over his native plains, through
the mountains and valleys of Germany, across the Alps to Italy. A
spot propitious for such forgetfulness of the present and his daily
surroundings, in favor of the past and a distant land, was ready.
His brothers, Ulrich and Johannes, also musicians, but who recognized
Wilhelm’s superior talent without envy and helped him develop it, had
arranged for him, during his stay in Italy, a prettily-furnished room
in the narrow side of the pointed roof of the house, from which a broad
door led to a little balcony. Here stood a wooden bench on which Wilhelm
liked to sit, watching the flight of his doves, gazing dreamily into
the distance or, when inclined to artistic creation, listening to the
melodies that echoed in his soul.

This highest part of the house afforded a beautiful prospect; the view
was almost as extensive as the one from the top of the citadel, the old
Roman tower situated in the midst of Leyden. Like a spider in its web,
Wilhelm’s native city lay in the midst of countless streams and canals
that intersected the meadows. The red brick masonry of the city wall,
with its towers and bastions, washed by a dark strip of water, encircled
the pretty place as a diadem surrounds a young girl’s head; and like a
chaplet of loosely-bound thorns, forts and redoubts extended in wider,
frequently broken circles around the walls. The citizens’ herds of
cattle grazed between the defensive fortifications and the city wall,
while beside and beyond them appeared villages and hamlets.

On this clear April day, looking towards the north, Haarlem lake was
visible, and on the west, beyond the leafy coronals of the Hague woods,
must be the downs which nature had reared for the protection of the
country against the assaults of the waves. Their long chain of hillocks
offered a firmer and more unconquerable resistance to the pressure
of the sea, than the earthworks and redoubts of Alfen, Leyderdorp and
Valkenburg, the three forts situated close to the banks of the Rhine,
presented to hostile armies. The Rhine! Wilhelm gazed down at the
shallow, sluggish river, and compared it to a king deposed from his
throne, who has lost power and splendor and now kindly endeavors to
dispense benefits in little circles with the property that remains. The
musician was familiar with the noble, undivided German Rhine; and often
followed it in imagination towards the south but more often still his
dreams conveyed him with a mighty leap to Lake Lugano, the pearl of the
Western Alps, and when he thought of it and the Mediterranean, beheld
rising before his mental vision emerald green, azure blue, and golden
light; and in such hours all his thoughts were transformed within his
breast into harmonies and exquisite music.

And his journey from Lugano to Milan! The conveyance that bore him
to Leonardo’s city was plain and overcrowded, but in it he had found
Isabella. And Rome, Rome, eternal, never-to-be-forgotten Rome, where so
long as we dwell there, we grow out of ourselves, increase in strength
and intellectual power, and which makes us wretched with longing when it
lies behind us.

By the Tiber Wilhelm had first thoroughly learned what art, his glorious
art was; here, near Isabella, a new world had opened to him, but a sharp
frost had passed over the blossoms of his heart that had unfolded in
Rome, and he knew they were blighted and could bear no fruit--yet to-day
he succeeded in recalling her in her youthful beauty, and instead of the
lost love, thinking of the kind friend Isabella and dreaming of a sky
blue as turquoise, of slender columns and bubbling fountains, olive
groves and marble statues, cool churches and gleaming villas, sparkling
eyes and fiery wine, magnificent choirs and Isabella’s singing.

The doves that cooed and clucked, flew away and returned to the cote
beside him, could now do as they chose, their guardian neither saw nor
heard them.

Allertssohn, the fencing-master, ascended the ladder to his watch-tower,
but he did not notice him until he stood on the balcony by his side,
greeting him with his deep voice.

“Where have we been, Herr Wilhelm?” asked the old man. “In this
cloth-weaving Leyden? No! Probably with the goddess of music on Olympus,
if she has her abode there.”

“Rightly guessed,” replied Wilhelm, pushing the hair back from his
forehead with both hands. “I have been visiting her, and she sends you a
friendly greeting.”

“Then offer one from me in return,” replied the other, “but she usually
belongs to the least familiar of my acquaintances. My throat is better
suited to drinking than singing. Will you allow me?”

The fencing-master raised the jug of beer which Wilhelm’s mother filled
freshly every day and placed in her darling’s room, and took a long
pull. Then wiping his moustache, he said:

“That did me good, and I needed it. The men wanted to go out pleasuring
and omit their drill, but we forced them to go through it, Junker von
Warmond, Duivenvoorde and I. Who knows how soon it may be necessary
to show what we can do. Roland, my fore man, such imprudence is like a
cudgel, against which one can do nothing with Florentine rapiers, clever
tierce and quarto. My wheat is destroyed by the hail.”

“Then let it be, and see if the barley and clover don’t do better,”
 replied Wilhelm gaily, tossing vetches and grains of wheat to a large
dove that had alighted on the parapet of his tower.

“It eats, and what use is it?” cried Allertssohn, looking at the dove.
“Herr von Warmond, a young man after God’s own heart, has just brought
me two falcons; do you want to see how I tame them?”

“No, Captain, I have enough to do with my music and my doves.”

“That is your affair. The long-necked one yonder is a queer-looking
fellow.”

“And of what country is he probably a native? There he goes to join the
others. Watch him a little while and then answer me.”

“Ask King Soloman that; he was on intimate terms with birds.”

“Only watch him, you’ll find out presently.”

“The fellow has a stiff neck, and holds his head unusually high.”

“And his beak?”

“Curved, almost like a hawk’s! Zounds, why does the creature strut about
with its toes so far apart? Stop, bandit! He’ll peck that little dove to
death. As true as I live, the saucy rascal must be a Spaniard!”

“Right, it is a Spanish dove. It flew to me, but I can’t endure it and
drive it away; for I keep only a few pairs of the same breed and try to
get the best birds possible. Whoever raises many different kinds in the
same cote, will accomplish nothing.”

“That gives food for thought. But I believe you haven’t chosen the
handsomest species.”

“No, sir. What you see are a cross between the carrier and tumblers,
the Antwerp breed of carrier pigeons. Bluish, reddish, spotted birds.
I don’t care for the colors, but they must have small bodies and large
wings, with broad quills on their flag-feathers, and above all ample
muscular strength. The one yonder stop, I’ll catch him--is one of my
best flyers. Try to lift his pinions.”

“Heaven knows the little thing has marrow in its bones! How the tiny
wing pinches; the falcons are not much stronger.”

“It’s a carrier-dove too, that finds its way alone.”

“Why do you keep no white tumblers? I should think they could be watched
farthest in their flight.”

“Because doves fare like men. Whoever shines very brightly and is seen
from a distance, is set upon by opponents and envious people, and birds
of prey pounce upon the white doves first. I tell you, Captain, whoever
has eyes in his head, can learn in a dove-cote how things come to pass
among Adam and Eve’s posterity on earth.”

“There is quarrelling and kissing up here just as there is in Leyden.”

“Yes, exactly the same, Captain. If I mate an old dove with one much
younger, it rarely turns out well. When the male dove is in love, he
understands how to pay his fair one as many attentions, as the most
elegant gallant shows the mistress of his heart. And do you know what
the kissing means? The suitor feeds his darling, that is, seeks to win
her affection by beautiful gifts. Then the wedding comes, and they build
a nest. If there are young birds, they feed them together in perfect
harmony. The aristocratic doves brood badly, and we put their eggs under
birds of more ordinary breed.”

“Those are the noble ladies, who have nurses for their infants.”

“Unmated doves often make mischief among the mated ones.”

“Take warning, young man, and beware of being a bachelor. I’ll say
nothing against the girls who remain unmarried, for I have found among
them many sweet, helpful souls.”

“So have I, but unfortunately some bad ones too, as well as here in the
dove-cote. On the whole my wards lead happy married lives, but if it
comes to a separation--”

“Which of the two is to blame?”

“Nine times out of ten the little wife.”

“Roland, my fore man, exactly as it is among human beings,” cried the
fencing-master, clapping his hands.

“What do you mean by your Roland, Herr Allerts? You promised me a short
time ago--but who is coming up the ladder?”

“I hear your mother.”

“She is bringing me a visitor. I know that voice and yet. Wait. It’s old
Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s steward.”

“From Nobelstrasse? Let me go, Wilhelm, for this Glipper crew--”

“Wait a little while, there is only room for one on the ladder,” said
the musician, holding out his hand to Belotti to guide him from the last
rung into his room.

“Spaniards and the allies of Spain,” muttered the fencing-master, opened
the door, and called while descending the ladder: “I’ll wait down below
till the air is pure again.”

The steward’s handsome face, usually smoothly shaven with the most
extreme care, was to-day covered with a stubbly beard, and the old man
looked sad and worn, as he began to tell Wilhelm what had occurred in
his mistress’s house since the evening of the day before.

“Years may make a hot-tempered person weaker, but not calmer,” said the
Italian, continuing his story. “I can’t look on and see the poor angel,
for she isn’t far from the Virgin’s throne, treated like a sick dog that
is flung out into the court-yard, so I got my discharge.”

“That does you honor, but was rather out of place just now. And has the
young lady really been carried to the damp room?”

“No, sir. Father Damianus came and made the old excellenza understand
what the holy Virgin expected of a Christian, and when the padrona still
tried to carry out her will, the holy man spoke to her in words so
harsh and stern that she yielded. The signorina is now lying in bed with
burning cheeks, raving in delirium.”

“And who is attending the patient?”

“I came to you about the physician, my dear sir, for Doctor de Bout, who
instantly obeyed my summons, was treated so badly by the old excellenza,
that he turned his back upon her and told me, at the door of the house,
he wouldn’t come again.”

Wilhelm shook his head, and the Italian continued, “There are other
doctors in Leyden, but Father Damianus says de Bont or Bontius, as they
call him, is the most skilful and learned of them all, and as the old
excellenza herself had an attack of illness about noon, and certainly
won’t leave her bed very speedily, the way is open, and Father Damianus
says he’ll go to Doctor Bontius himself if necessary. But as you are a
native of the city and acquainted with the signorina, I wanted to spare
him the rebuff he would probably meet from the foe of our holy Church.
The poor man has enough to suffer from good-for-nothing boys and
scoffers, when he goes through the city with the sacrament.”

“You know people are strictly forbidden to disturb him in the exercise
of his calling.”

“Yet he can’t show himself in the street without being jeered. We two
cannot change the world, sir. So long as the Church had the upper hand,
she burned and quartered you, now you have the power here, our priests
are persecuted and scorned.”

“Against the law and the orders of the magistrates.”

“You can’t control the people, and Father Damianus is a lamb, who bears
everything patiently, as good a Christian as many saints before whom we
burn candles. Do you know the doctor?”

“A little, by sight.”

“Oh, then go to him, sir, for the young lady’s sake,” cried the old man
earnestly. “It is in your power to save a human life, a beautiful young
life.”

The steward’s eyes glittered with tears. As Wilhelm laid his hand on
his arm, saying kindly: “I will try,” the fencing-master called: “Your
council is lasting too long for me. I’ll come another time.”

“No, Meister, come up a minute, This gentleman is here on account of
a poor sick girl. The poor, helpless creature is now lying without any
care, for her aunt, old Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, has driven Doctor de
Bont from her bed because he is a Calvinist.”

“From the sick girl’s bed?”

“It’s abominable enough, but the old lady is now ill herself.”

“Bravo, bravo!” cried the fencing-master, clapping his hands. “If the
devil himself isn’t afraid of her and wants to fetch her, I’ll pay for
his post-horses. But the girl, the sick girl?”

“Herr Belotti begs me to persuade de Bont to visit her again. Are you on
friendly terms with the doctor?”

“I was, Wilhelm, I was; but--last Friday we had some sharp words about
the new morions, and now the learned demi-god demands an apology from
me, but to sound a retreat isn’t written here--”

“Oh, my dear sir,” cried Belotti, with touching earnestness. “The poor
child is lying helpless in a raging fever. If Heaven has blessed you
with children--”

“Be calm, old man, be calm,” replied the fencing master, stroking
Belotti’s grey hair kindly. “My children are nothing to you, but
we’ll do what we can for the young girl. Farewell till we meet again,
gentlemen. Roland, my fore man, what shall we live to see! Hemp is still
cheap in Holland, and yet such a monster has lived amongst us to be as
old as a raven.”

With these words he went down the ladder. On reaching the street, he
pondered over the words in which he should apologize to Doctor Bontius,
with a face as sour as if he had wormwood in his mouth; but his eyes and
bearded lips smiled.

His learned friend made the apology easy for him, and when Belotti came
home, he found the doctor by the sick girl’s bed.




CHAPTER XI.

Frau Elizabeth von Nordwyk and Frau Van Bout had each asked the
burgomaster’s wife to go into the country with them to enjoy the
beautiful spring day, but in spite of Barbara’s persuasions, Maria could
not be induced to accept their invitation.

A week had elapsed since her husband’s departure, a week whose days had
run their course from morning to evening as slowly as the brackish
water in one of the canals, intersecting the meadows of Holland, flowed
towards the river.

Sleep loves the couches of youth, and had again found hers, but with the
rising of the sun the dissatisfaction, anxiety and secret grief, that
slumber had kindly interrupted, once more returned. She felt that it was
not right, and her father would have blamed her if he had seen her thus.

There are women who are ashamed of rosy cheeks, unrestrained joy in
life, to whom the emotion of sorrow affords a mournful pleasure. To this
class Maria certainly did not belong. She would fain have been happy,
and left untried no means of regaining the lost joy of her heart.
Honestly striving to do her duty, she returned to little Bessie; but
the child was rapidly recovering and called for Barbara, Adrian or
Trautchen, as soon as she was left alone with her.

She tried to read, but the few books she had brought from Delft were
all familiar, and her thoughts, ere becoming fixed on the old volumes,
pursued their own course.

Wilhelm brought her the new motet, and she endeavored to sing it; but
music demands whole hearts from those who desire to enjoy her gifts, and
therefore melody and song refused comfort as well as pleasure to her,
whose mind was engrossed by wholly different things. If she helped
Adrian in his work, her patience failed much sooner than usual. On the
first market-day, she went out with Trautchen to obey her husband’s
directions and make purchases and, while shopping at the various
places where different wares were offered--here fish, yonder meat or
vegetables, amid the motley crowd, hailed on every side by cries
of: “Here, Frau Burgermeisterin! I have what you want, Frau
Burgermeisterin!” forgot the sorrow that oppressed her.

With newly-animated self-reliance, she examined flour, pulse and dried
fish, making it a point of honor to bargain carefully; Barbara should
see that she knew how to buy. The crowd was very great everywhere, for
the city magistrates had issued a proclamation bidding every household,
in view of the threatened danger, to supply itself abundantly with
provisions on all the market-days; but the purchasers made way for the
burgomaster’s pretty young wife, and this too pleased her.

She returned home with a bright face, happy in having done her best, and
instantly went into the kitchen to see Barbara.

Peter’s good-natured sister had plainly perceived how sorely her young
sister-in-law’s heart was troubled, and therefore gladly saw her go out
to make her purchases. Choosing and bargaining would surely dispel her
sorrows and bring other thoughts. True, the cautious house-keeper,
who expected everything good from Maria except the capacity of showing
herself an able, clever mistress of the house, had charged Trautchen to
warn her mistress against being cheated. But when in market the demand
is two or three times greater than the supply, prices rise, and so it
happened that when Maria told the widow how much she had paid for this
or that article, Barbara’s “My child, that’s perfectly unheard--of!”
 or, “It’s enough to drive us to beggary,” followed each other in quick
succession.

These exclamations, which under the circumstances were usually entirely
unjustifiable, vexed Maria; but she wished to be at peace with her
sister-in-law, and though it was hard to bear injustice, it was contrary
to her nature and would have caused her pain to express her indignation
in violent words. So she merely said with a little excitement:

“Please ask what other ladies are paying, and then Scold, if you think
it right.”

With these words she left the kitchen.

“My child, I’m not scolding at all,” Barbara called after her, but Maria
would not hear, hastily ascended the stairs and locked herself into her
room. Her joyousness had again vanished.

On Sunday she went to church. After dinner she filled a canvas-bag with
provisions for Adrian, who was going on a boating excursion with several
friends, and then sat at the window in her chamber.

Stately men, among them many members of the council, passed by with
their gaily-dressed wives and children; young girls with flowers in
their bosoms moved arm in arm, by twos and threes, along the footpath
beside the canal, to dance in the village outside the Zyl-Gate. They
walked quietly forward with eyes discreetly downcast, but many a cheek
flushed and many an ill-suppressed smile hovered around rosy lips, when
the youths, who followed the girls moving so decorously along, as gaily
and swiftly as sea-gulls flutter around a ship, uttered teasing jests,
or whispered into their ears words that no third party need hear.

All who were going towards the Zyl-Gate seemed gay and careless, every
face showed what joyous hours in the open air and sunny meadows were
anticipated. The object that attracted them appeared beautiful and
desirable to Maria also, but what should she do among the happy, how
could she be alone amid strangers with her troubled heart? The shadows
of the houses seemed especially dark to-day, the air of the city heavier
than usual, as if the spring had come to every human being, great and
small, old and young, except herself.

The buildings and the trees that bordered the Achtergracht were already
casting longer shadows, and the golden mists hovering over the roofs
began to be mingled with a faint rosy light, when Maria heard a horseman
trotting up the street. She drew herself up rigidly and her heart
throbbed violently. She would not receive Peter any differently from
usual, she must be frank to him and show him how she felt, and that
matters could not go on so, nay she was already trying to find fitting
words for what she had to say to him. Just at that moment, the horse
stopped before the door. She went to the window; saw her husband swing
himself from the saddle and look joyously up to the window of her room
and, though she made no sign of greeting, her heart drew her towards
him. Every thought, every fancy was forgotten, and with winged steps she
flew down the corridor to the stairs. Meantime he had entered, and she
called his name. “Maria, child, are you there!” he shouted, rushed up
the steps as nimbly as a youth, met her on one of the upper stairs and
drew her with overflowing tenderness to his heart.

“At last, at last, I have you again!” he cried joyously, pressing
his lips to her eyes and her fragrant hair. She had clasped her hands
closely around his neck, but he released himself, held them in his, and
asked: “Are Barbara and Adrian at home?”

She shook her head.

The burgomaster laughed, stooped, lifted her up like a child, and
carried her into his room. As a beautiful tree beside a burning house
is seized by the neighboring flames, although immediately protected with
cold water, Maria, in spite of her long-cherished resolve to receive
him coolly, was overwhelmed by the warmth of her husband’s feelings. She
cordially rejoiced in having him once more, and willingly believed
him, as he told her in loving words how painfully he had felt their
separation, how sorely he had missed her, and how distinctly he, who
usually lacked the ability to remember an absent person, had had her
image before his eyes.

How warmly, with what convincing tones he understood how to give
expression to his love to-day! She was still a happy wife, and showed
him that she was without reserve.

Barbara and Adrian returned home, and there was now much to tell at the
evening meal. Peter had had many a strange experience on the journey,
and gained fresh hope, the boy had distinguished himself at school, and
Bessie’s sickness might already be called a danger happily overcome.
Barbara was radiant with joy, for all seemed well between Maria and her
brother.

The beautiful April night passed pleasantly away. When Maria was
braiding black velvet into her hair the next morning, she was full
of grateful emotion, for she had found courage to tell Peter that
she desired to have a larger share in his anxieties than before, and
received a kind assent. A worthier, richer life, she hoped, would
now begin. He was to tell her this very day what he had discussed and
accomplished with the Prince and at Dortrecht, for hitherto no word of
all this had escaped his lips.

Barbara, who was moving about in the kitchen and just on the point of
catching three chickens to kill them, let them live a little longer, and
even tossed half a handful of barley into their coop, as she heard her
sister-in-law come singing down-stairs. The broken bars of Wilhelm’s
last madrigal sounded as sweet and full of promise as the first notes of
the nightingale, which the gardener hears at the end of a long winter.
It was spring again in the house, and her pleasant round face, in its
large cap, looked as bright and unclouded as a sunflower amid its green
leaves, as she called to Maria:

“This is a good day for you, child; we’ll melt down the butter and salt
the hams.”

The words sounded as joyous as if she had offered her an invitation to
Paradise, and Maria willingly helped in the work, which began at once.
When the widow moved her hands, tongues could not remain silent, and the
conversation that had probably taken place between Peter and his wife
excited her curiosity not a little.

She turned the conversation upon him cleverly enough, and, as if
accidentally, asked the question:

“Did he apologize for his departure on the anniversary of your
wedding-day?”

“I know the reason; he could not stay.”

“Of course not, of course not; but whoever is green the goats eat. We
mustn’t allow the men to go too far. Give, but take also. An injustice
endured is a florin, for which in marriage a calf can be bought.”

“I will not bargain with Peter, and if anything weighed heavily on my
mind, I have willingly forgotten it after so long a separation.”

“Wet hay may destroy a barn, and any one to whom the hare runs can catch
him! People ought not to keep their troubles to themselves, but tell
them; that’s why they have tongues, and yesterday was the right time to
make a clean breast of everything that grieves you.”

“He was in such a joyous mood when he came home, and then: Why do you
think I feel unhappy?”

“Unhappy. Who said so?”

Maria blushed, but the widow seized the knife and opened the hen-coop.

Trautchen was helping the two ladies in the kitchen, but she was
frequently interrupted in her work, for this morning the knocker on
the door had no rest, and those who entered must have brought the
burgomaster no pleasant news, for his deep, angry voice was often
audible.

His longest discussion was with Herr Van Hout, who had come to him,
not only to ask questions and tell what occurred, but also to make
complaints.

It was no ordinary spectacle, when these two men, who, towering far
above their fellow-citizens, not only in stature, but moral earnestness
and enthusiastic devotion to the cause of liberty, declared their
opinions and expressed their wrath. The inflammable, restless Van Hout
took the first part, the slow, steadfast Van der Werff, with mighty
impressiveness, the second.

A bad disposition ruled among the fathers of the city, the rich men of
old families, the great weavers and brewers, for to them property, life
and consideration were more than religion and liberty, while the poor
men, who laboriously supported their families by the sweat of their
brows, were joyously determined to sacrifice money and blood for the
good cause.

There was obstacle after obstacle to conquer. The scaffolds and barns,
frames and all other wood-work that could serve to conceal a man,
were to be levelled to the earth, as all the country-houses and other
buildings near the city had formerly been. Much newly-erected woodwork
was already removed, but the rich longest resisted having the axe put
to theirs. New earthworks had been commenced at the important fort of
Valkenburg; but part of the land, where the workmen were obliged to dig,
belonged to a brewer, who demanded a large sum in compensation for his
damaged meadow. When the siege was raised in March, paper-money was
restored, round pieces of pasteboard, one side of which bore the
Netherland lion, with the inscription, “Haec libertatis ergo,” while the
other had the coat-of-arms of the city and the motto “God guard Leyden.”
 These were intended to be exchanged for coin or provisions, but rich
speculators had obtained possession of many pieces, and were trying to
raise their value. Demands of every kind pressed upon him, and amid
all these claims the burgomaster was also compelled to think of his own
affairs, for all intercourse with the outside world would soon be cut
off, and it was necessary to settle many things with the representative
of his business in Hamburg. Great losses were threatening, but he left
no means untried to secure for his family what might yet be saved.

He rarely saw wife or children; yet thought he was fulfilling the
promise Maria had obtained from him the evening after his return, when
he briefly answered her questions or voluntarily gave her such sentences
as “There was warm work at the town-hall to-day!” or, “It is more
difficult to circulate the paper-money than we expected!” He did not
feel the kindly necessity of having a confidante and expressing his
feelings, and his first wife had been perfectly contented and happy, if
he sat silently beside her during quiet hours, called her his treasure,
petted the children, or even praised her cracknels and Sunday roast.
Business and public affairs had been his concern, the kitchen and
nursery hers. What they had shared, was the consciousness of the love
one felt for the other, their children, the distinction, honors and
possessions of the household.

Maria asked more and he was ready to grant it, but when in the evening
she pressed the wearied man with questions he was accustomed to hear
only from the lips of men, he put her off for the answers till less busy
times, or fell asleep in the midst of her inquiries.

She saw how many burdens oppressed him, how unweariedly he toiled--but
why did he not move a portion of the load to other shoulders?

Once, during the beautiful spring weather, he went out with her into the
country. She seized upon the opportunity to represent that it was his
duty to himself and her to gain more rest.

He listened patiently, and when she had finished her entreaty and
warnings, took her hand in his, saying:

“You have met Herr Marnix von St. Aldegonde and know what the cause of
liberty owes him. Do you know his motto?”

She nodded and answered softly: “Repos ailleurs.”

“Where else can we rest,” he repeated firmly.

A slight shiver ran through her limbs, and as she withdrew her hands,
she could not help thinking: “Where else;-so not here. Rest and
happiness have no home here.” She did not utter the words, but could not
drive them from her mind.




CHAPTER XII.

During these May days the Hoogstraten mansion was the quietest of all
the houses in quiet Nobelstrasse. By the orders of Doctor Bontius
and the sick lady’s attorney, a mixture of straw and sand lay on the
cause-way before it. The windows were closely curtained, and a piece
of felt hung between the door and the knocker. The door was ajar, but a
servant sat close behind it to answer those who sought admission.

On a morning early in May the musician, Wilhelm Corneliussohn, and Janus
Dousa turned the corner of Nobelstrasse. Both men were engaged in eager
conversation, but as they approached the straw and sand, their voices
became lower and then ceased entirely.

“The carpet we spread under the feet of the conqueror Death,” said the
nobleman. “I hope he will lower the torch only once here and do honor to
age, little worthy of respect as it may be. Don’t stay too long in the
infected house, Herr Wilhelm.”

The musician gently opened the door. The servant silently greeted him
and turned towards the stairs to call Belotti; for the “player-man” had
already enquired more than once for the steward.

Wilhelm entered the little room where he usually waited, and for the
first time found another visitor there, but in a somewhat peculiar
attitude. Father Damianus sat bolt upright in an arm-chair, with his
head drooping on one side, sound asleep. The face of the priest, a man
approaching his fortieth year, was as pink and white as a child’s, and
framed by a thin light-brown beard. A narrow circle of thin light hair
surrounded his large tonsure, and a heavy dark rosary of olive-wood
beads hung from the sleeper’s hands. A gentle, kindly smile hovered
around his half-parted lips.

“This mild saint in long woman’s robes doesn’t look as if he could grasp
anything strongly” thought Wilhelm, “yet his hands are callous and have
toiled hard.”

When Belotti entered the room and saw the sleeping priest, he carefully
pushed a pillow under his head and beckoned to Wilhelm to follow him
into the entry.

“We won’t grudge him a little rest,” said the Italian. “He has sat
beside the padrona’s bed from yesterday noon until two hours ago.
Usually she doesn’t know what is going on around her, but as soon as
consciousness returns she wants religious consolation. She still refuses
to take the sacrament for the dying, for she won’t admit that she
is approaching her end. Yet often, when the disease attacks her more
sharply, she asks in mortal terror if everything is ready, for she is
afraid to die without extreme unction.”

“And how is Fraulein Henrica?”

“A very little better.”

The priest had now come out of the little room. Belotti reverently
kissed his hand and Wilhelm bowed respectfully.

“I had fallen asleep,” said Damianus simply and naturally, but in a
voice less deep and powerful than would have been expected from his
broad breast and tall figure. “I will read the mass, visit my sick, and
then return. Have you thought better of it, Belotti?”

“It won’t do sir, the Virgin knows it won’t do. My dismissal was given
for the first of May, this is the eighth, and yet I’m still here--I
haven’t left the house because I’m a Christian! Now the ladies have a
good physician, Sister Gonzaga is doing her duty, you yourself will
earn by your nursing a place among the martyrs in Paradise, so, without
making myself guilty of a sin, I can tie up my bundle.”

“You will not go, Belotti,” said the priest firmly. “If you still insist
on having your own way, at least do not call yourself a Christian.”

“You will stay,” cried Wilhelm, “if only for the sake of the young lady,
to whom you still feel kindly.” Belotti shook his head, and answered
quietly:

“You can add nothing, young sir, to what the holy Father represented
to me yesterday. But my mind is made up, I shall go; yet as I value the
holy Father’s good opinion and yours, I beg you to do me the favor to
listen to me. I have passed my sixty-second birthday, and an old horse
or an old servant stands a long time in the market-place before any
one will buy them. There might probably be a place in Brussels for a
Catholic steward, who understands his business, but this old heart longs
to return to Naples--ardently, ardently, unutterably. You have seen our
blue sea and our sky, young sir, and I yearn for them, but even more for
other, smaller things. It now seems a joy that I can speak in my native
language to you, Herr Wilhelm, and you, holy Father. But there is a
country where every one uses the same tongue that I do. There is a
little village at the foot of Vesuvius--merciful Heavens! Many a person
would be afraid to stay there, even half an hour, when the mountain
quakes, the ashes fall in showers, and the glowing lava pours out in
a stream. The houses there are by no means so well built, and the
window-panes are not so clean as in this country. I almost fear that
there are few glass windows in Resina, but the children don’t freeze,
any more than they do here. What would a Leyden house-keeper say to our
village streets? Poles with vines, boughs of fig-trees, and all sorts
of under-clothing on the roofs, at the windows, and the crooked, sloping
balconies; orange and lemon-trees with golden fruit grow in the little
gardens, which have neither straight paths nor symmetrical beds.
Everything there grows together topsy-turvy. The boys, who in rags that
no tailor has darned or mended, clamber over the white vineyard walls,
the little girls, whose mothers comb their hair before the doors of the
houses, are not so pink and white, nor so nicely washed as the Holland
children, but I should like to see again the brown-skinned, black-haired
little ones with the dark eyes, and end my days amid all the clatter in
the warm air, among my nephews, nieces and blood-relations.”

As he uttered these words, the old man’s features had flushed and
his black eyes sparkled with a fire, that but a short time before
the northern air and his long years of servitude seemed to have
extinguished. Since neither the priest nor the musician answered
immediately, he continued more quietly:

“Monseigneur Gloria is going to Italy now, and I can accompany him to
Rome as courier. From thence I can easily reach Naples, and live there
on the interest of my savings free from care. My future master will
leave on the 15th, and on the 12th I must be in Antwerp, where I am to
meet him.”

The eyes of the priest and the musician met. Wilhelm lacked courage to
seek to withhold the steward from carrying out his plan, but Damianus
summoned up his resolution, laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder, and
said:

“If you wait here a few weeks more, Belotti, you will find the true
rest, the peace of a good conscience. The crown of life is promised to
those, who are faithful, unto death. When these sad days are over, it
will be easy to smooth the way to your home. We shall meet again towards
noon, Belotti. If my assistance is necessary, send for me; old Ambrosius
knows where to find me. May God’s blessing rest upon you, and if you
will accept it from me, on you also, Meister Wilhelm.”

After the priest had left the house, Belotti said, sighing:

“He’ll yet force me to yield to his will. He abuses his power over
souls. I’m no saint, and what he asks of me--”

“Is right,” said Wilhelm firmly.

“But you don’t know what it is to throw away, like a pair of worn-out
shoes, the dearest hope of a long, sad life. And for whom, I ask you,
for whom? Do you know my padrona? Oh! sir, I have experienced in this
house things, which your youth does not dream could be possible. The
young lady has wounded you. Am I right or wrong?”

“You are mistaken, Belotti.”

“Really? I am glad for your sake, you are a modest artist, but the
signorina bears the Hoogstraten name, and that is saying everything. Do
you know her father?”

“No, Belotti.”

“That’s a race-a race! Have you never heard anything of the story of our
signorina’s older sister?”

“Has Henrica an older sister?”

“Yes, sir, and when I think of her.--Imagine the signorina, exactly like
our signorina, only taller, more stately, more beautiful.”

“Isabella!” exclaimed the musician. A conjecture, which had been aroused
since his conversation with Henrica, appeared to be confirmed; he seized
the steward’s arm so suddenly and unexpectedly, that the latter drew
back, and continued eagerly: “What do you know of her? I beseech you,
Belotti, tell me all.”

The servant looked up the stairs, then shaking his head, answered:

“You are probably mistaken. There has never been an Isabella in this
house to my knowledge, but I will gladly place myself at your service.
Come again after sunset, but you must expect to hear no pleasant tale.”

Twilight had scarcely yielded to darkness, when the musician again
entered the Hoogstraten mansion. The little room was empty, but Belotti
did not keep him waiting long.

The old man placed a dainty little waiter, bearing a jug of wine and a
goblet, on the table beside the lamp and, after informing Wilhelm of the
invalids’ condition, courteously offered him a chair. When the musician
asked him why he had not brought a cup for himself too, he replied:

“I drink nothing but water, but allow me to take the liberty to sit
down. The servant who attends to the chambers has left the house, and
I’ve done nothing but go up and down stairs all day. It tries my old
legs, and we can expect no quiet night.”

A single candle lighted the little room. Belotti, who had leaned far
back in his chair, opened his clenched hands and slowly began:

“I spoke this morning of the Hoogstraten race. Children of the same
parents, it is true, are often very unlike, but in your little
country, which speaks its own language and has many things peculiar to
itself--you won’t deny that--every old family has its special traits. I
know, for I have been in many a noble household in Holland. Every race
has its own peculiar blood and ways. Even where--by your leave--there is
a crack in the brain, it rarely happens to only one member of a family.
My mistress has more of her French mother’s nature. But I intended to
speak only of the signorina, and am wandering too far from my subject.”

“No, Belotti, certainly not, we have plenty of time, and I shall be glad
to listen to you, but first you must answer one question.”

“Why, sir, how your cheeks glow! Did you meet the signorina in Italy?”

“Perhaps so, Belotti.”

“Why, of course, of course! Whoever has once seen her, doesn’t easily
forget. What is it you wish to know?”

“First, the lady’s name.”

“Anna.”

“And not Isabella also?”

“No, sir, she was never called anything but Anna.”

“And when did she leave Holland?”

“Wait; it was--four years ago last Easter.”

“Has she dark, brown or fair hair?”

“I’ve said already that she looked just like Fraulein Henrica. But what
lady might not have fair, brown or dark hair? I think we shall reach
the goal sooner, if you will let me ask a question now. Had the lady
you mean a large semi-circular scar just under the hair, exactly in the
middle of her forehead?”

“Enough,” cried Wilhelm, rising hastily. “She fell on one of her
father’s weapons when a child.”

“On the contrary, sir, the handle of Junker Van Hoogstraten’s weapon
fell on the forehead of his own daughter. How horrified you look! Oh! I
have witnessed worse things in this house. Now it is your turn again: In
what city of my home did you meet the signorina?”

“In Rome, alone and under an assumed name. Isabella--a Holland girl!
Pray go on with your story, Belotti; I won’t interrupt you again. What
had the child done, that her own father--”

“He is the wildest of all the wild Hoogstratens. Perhaps you may have
seen men like him in Italy--in this country you might seek long for such
a hurricane. You must not think him an evil-disposed man, but a word
that goes against the grain, a look askance will rob him of his senses,
and things are done which he repents as soon as they are over. The
signorina received her scar in the same way. She was a mere child, and
of course ought not to have touched fire-arms, nevertheless she did
whenever she could, and once a pistol went off and the bullet struck one
of the best hunting-dogs. Her father heard the report and, when he saw
the animal lying on the ground and the pistol at the little girl’s feet,
he seized it and with the sharp-edged handle struck--”

“A child, his own daughter!” exclaimed Wilhelm indignantly.

“People are differently constituted,” Belotti continued. “Some, the
class to which you probably belong, cautiously consider before they
speak or act; the second reflect a long time and, when they are ready,
pour forth a great many words, but rarely act at all; while the third,
and at their head the Hoogstraten family, heap deeds on deeds, and if
they ever think, it is only after the act is accomplished. If they then
find that they have committed an injustice, pride comes in and forbids
them to confess, atone for, or recall it. So one misfortune follows
another; but the gentlemen pay no heed and find forgetfulness in
drinking and gambling, carousing and hunting. There are plenty of debts,
but all anxiety concerning them is left to the creditors, and boys who
receive no inheritance are supplied with a place at court or in the
army; for the girls, thank God, there is no lack of convents, if they
confess our holy religion, and both have expectations from rich aunts
and other blood relations, who die without children.”

“You paint in vivid colors.”

“But they are true, and they all suit the Junker; though to be sure he
need not keep his property for sons, since his wife gave him none. He
met her at court in Brussels, and she came from Parma.”

“Did you know her?”

“She died before I came to the padrona’s house. The two young ladies
grew up without a mother. You have heard that their father would even
attack them, yet he doubtless loved them and would never resolve
to place them in a convent. True, he often felt--at least he freely
admitted it in conversations with her excellenza--that there were more
suitable places for young girls than his castle, where matters went
badly enough, and so he at last sent his oldest daughter to us. My
mistress usually could not endure the society of young girls, but
Fraulein Anna was one of her nearest relatives, and I know she invited
her of her own accord. I can still see in memory the signorina at
sixteen; a sweeter creature, Herr Wilhelm, my eyes have never beheld
before or since, and yet she never remained the same. I have seen her
as soft as Flemish velvet, but at other times she could rage like a
November storm in your country. She was always beautiful as a rose and,
as her mother’s old cameriera--she was a native of Lugano--had
brought her up, and the priest who taught her came from Pisa and was
acknowledged to be an excellent musician, she spoke my language like
a child of Tuscany and was perfectly familiar with music. You have
doubtless heard her singing, her harp and lute-playing, but you should
know that all the ladies of the Hoogstraten family, with the exception
of my mistress, possess a special talent for your art. In summer we
lived in the beautiful country-house, that was torn down before the
siege by your friends--with little justice I think. Many a stately guest
rode out to visit us. We kept open house, and where there is a good
table and a beautiful young lady like our signorina, the gallants are
not far off. Among them was a very aristocratic gentleman of middle age,
the Marquis d’Avennes, whom her excellenza had expressly invited. We had
never received any prince with so much attention; but this was a matter
of course, for his mother was a relative of her excellenza. You must
know that my mistress; on her mother’s side, is descended from a family
in Normandy. The Marquis d’Avennes was certainly an elegant cavalier,
but rather dainty than manly. He was soon madly in love with Fraulein
Anna, and asked in due form for her hand. Her excellenza favored the
match, and the father said simply: ‘You will take him!’ He would listen
to no opposition. Other gentlemen don’t consult their daughters when a
suitable lover appears. So the signorina became the marquis’s betrothed
wife, but the padrona said firmly that her niece was too young to be
married. She induced Junker Van Hoogstraten, whom she held as firmly as
a farrier holds a filly, to defer the wedding until Easter. The outfit
was to be provided during the winter. The condition that he must wait
six months was imposed on the marquis, and he went back to France with
the ring on his finger. His betrothed bride did not shed a single tear
for him, and as soon as he had gone, flung the engagement ring into the
jewel-cup on her dressing-table, before the eyes of the camariera, from
whom I heard the story. She did not venture to oppose her father,
but did not hesitate to express her opinion of the marquis to her
excellenza, and her aunt, though she had favored the Frenchman’s suit,
allowed it. Yet there had often been fierce quarrels between the old and
young lady, and if the padrona had had reason to clip the wild falcon’s
wings and teach her what is fitting for noble ladies, the signorina
would have been justified in complaining of many an exaction, by which
the padrona had spoiled her pleasure in life. I am sorry to destroy the
confidence of your youth, but whoever grows grey, with his eyes open,
will meet persons who rejoice, nay to whom it is a necessity to injure
others. Yet it is a consolation, that no one is wicked simply for
the sake of wickedness, and I have often found--how shall I express
it?--that the worst impulses arise from the perversion, or even the
excess of the noblest virtues, whose reverse or caricature they become.
I have seen base envy proceed from beautiful ambition, contemptible
avarice from honest emulation, fierce hate from tender love. My
mistress, when she was young, knew how to love truly and faithfully, but
she was shamefully deceived, and now rancor, not against an individual,
but against life, has taken possession of her, and her noble loyalty has
become tenacious adherence to bad wishes. How this has happened you will
learn, if you will continue to listen.

“When winter came, I was ordered to go to Brussel, and establish the new
household in splendid style. The ladies were to follow me. It was four
years ago. The Duke of Alva then lived as viceroy in Brussels, and this
nobleman held my mistress in high esteem, nay had even twice paid us the
honor of a visit. His aristocratic officers also frequented our house,
among them Don Luis d’Avila, a nobleman of ancient family, who was one
of the duke’s favorites. Like the Marquis d’Avennes, he was no longer in
his early youth, but was a man of totally different stamp; tall, strong
as if hammered from steel, a soldier of invincible strength and skill,
a most dreaded seeker of quarrels, but a man whose glowing eyes and
wonderful gift of song must have exerted a mysterious, bewitching power
over women. Dozens of adventures, in which he was said to have taken
part, were told in the servant’s hall and half of them had some
foundation of truth, as I afterwards learned by experience. If you
suppose this heart-breaker bore any resemblance to the gay, curly-haired
minions of fortune, on whom young ladies lavish their love, you are
mistaken; Don Luis was a grave man with close-cut hair, who never wore
anything but dark clothes, and even carried a sword, whose hilt, instead
of gold and silver, consisted of blackened metal. He resembled
death much more than blooming love. Perhaps this very thing made him
irresistible, since we are all born for death and no suitor is so sure
of victory as he.

“The padrona had not been favorably disposed to him at first, but
this mood soon changed, and at New Year’s he too was admitted to small
evening receptions of intimate friends. He came whenever we invited him,
but had no word, no look, scarcely a greeting for our young lady. Only
when it pleased the signorina to sing, he went near her and sharply
criticised anything in her execution that chanced to displease him.
He often sang himself too, and then usually chose the same songs as
Fraulein Anna, as if to surpass her by his superior skill.

“So things went on till the time of the carnival. On Shrove-Tuesday
the padrona gave a large entertainment, and when I led the servants and
stood behind the signorina and Don Luis, to whom her excellenza had long
been in the habit of assigning the seat beside her niece, I noticed that
their hands met under the table and rested in each other’s clasp a long
time. My heart was so full of anxiety, that it was very hard for me
to keep the attention so necessary on that evening--and when the next
morning, the padrona summoned me to settle the accounts, I thought it
my duty to modestly remark that Don Luis d’Avila’s wooing did not seem
disagreeable to the young lady in spite of her betrothal. She let me
speak, but when I ventured to repeat what people said of the Spaniard,
angrily started up and showed me to the door. A faithful servant often
hears and sees more than his employers suspect, and I had the confidence
of the padrona’s foster-sister, who is now dead; but at that time
Susanna knew everything that concerned her mistress.

“There was a bad prospect for the expectant bridegroom in France, for
whenever the padrona spoke of him, it was with a laugh we knew, and
which boded no good; but she still wrote frequently to the marquis and
his mother, and many a letter from Rochebrun reached our house. To be
sure, her excellenza also gave Don Luis more than one secret audience.

“During Lent a messenger from Fraulein Van Hoogstraten’s father arrived
with the news, that at Easter he, himself, would come to Brussels from
Haarlem, and the marquis from Castle Rochebrun, and on Maundy Thursday
I received orders to dress the private chapel with flowers, engage
posthorses, and do several other things. On Good Friday, the day of our
Lord’s crucifixion--I wish I were telling lies--early in the morning of
Good Friday the signorina was dressed in all her bridal finery. Don Luis
appeared clad in black, proud and gloomy as usual, and by candle-light,
before sunrise on a col

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