The burgomaster’s wife returned home just before dinner, and found a motley throng of bearded warriors assembled in front of the house, they were trying to make themselves intelligible in the English language to some of the constables, and when the latter respectfully saluted Maria, raised their hands to their morions also.
She pleasantly returned the greeting and passed into the entry, where the full light of noon streamed in through the open door.
Peter had assigned quarters to the English soldiers outside, and after a consultation with the new commandant, Jan Van der Does, gave them officers. They were probably waiting for their comrades, for when the young wife had ascended the first steps of the staircase and looked upward, she found the top of the narrow flight barred by the tall figure of a soldier. The latter had his back towards her and was showing Bessie his dark velvet cap, surrounded by rectangular teeth, above which floated a beautiful light-blue ostrich-plume. The child seemed to have formed a close friendship with the soldier, for, although the latter was refusing her something, the little girl laughed gaily.
Maria paused irresolutely a moment; but when the child snatched the gay cap and put it on her own curls, she thought she must check her and exclaimed warningly: “Why, Bessie, that is no plaything for children.”
The soldier turned, stood still a moment in astonishment, raised his hand to his forehead, and then, with a few hurried bounds, sprang down the stairs and rushed up to the burgomaster’s wife. Maria had started back in surprise; but he gave her no time to think, for stretching out both hands he exclaimed in an eager, joyous tone, with sparkling eyes: “Maria! Jungfrau Maria! You here! This is what I call a lucky day!” The young wife had instantly recognized the soldier and willingly laid her right hand in his, though not without a shade of embarrassment.
The officer’s clear, blue eyes sought hers, but she fixed her gaze on the floor, saying: “I am no longer what I was, the young girl has become a housewife.”
“A housewife!” he exclaimed. “How dignified that sounds! And yet! Yet! You are still Jungfrau Maria! You haven’t changed a hair. That’s just the way you bent your head at the wedding in Delft, the way you raised your hands, lowered your eyes—you blushed too, just as prettily.”
There was a rare melody in the voice which uttered these words with joyous, almost childlike freedom, which pleased Maria no less than the officer’s familiar manner annoyed her. With a hasty movement she raised her head, looked steadily into the young man’s handsome face and said with dignity:
“You see only the exterior, Junker von Dornburg; three years have made many changes within.”
“Junker von Dornburg,” he repeated, shaking his waving locks. “I was Junker Georg in Delft. Very different things have happened to us, dear lady, very different things. You see I have grown a tolerable, though not huge moustache, am stouter, and the sun has bronzed my pink and white boyish face—in short: my outer man has changed for the worse, but within I am just the same as I was three years ago.”
Maria felt the blood again mounting into her cheeks, but she did not wish to blush and answered hastily: “Standing still is retrograding, so you have lost three beautiful years, Herr von Dornburg.”
The officer looked at Maria in perplexity, and then said more gravely than before:
“Your jest is more opportune, than you probably suppose; I had hoped to find you again in Delft, but powder was short in Alfen, so the Spaniard will probably reach your native city sooner than we. Now a kind fate brings me to you here; but let me be honest—What I hope and desire stands clearly before my eyes, echoes in my soul, and when I thought of our meeting, I dreamed you would lay both hands in mine and, instead of greeting me with witty words, ask the old companion of happy hours, your brother Leonhard’s best friend: ‘Do you still remember our dead?’ And when I had told you: ‘Yes, yes, yes, I have never forgotten him,’ then I thought the mild lustre of your eyes—Oh, oh, how I thank you! The dear orbs are floating in a mist of tears. You are not so wholly changed as you supposed, Frau Maria, and if I loyally remember the past, will you blame me for it?”
“Certainly not,” she answered cordially. “And now that you speak to me so, I will with pleasure again call you Junker Georg, and as Leonhard’s friend and mine, invite you to our house.”
“That will be delightful,” he cried cordially. “I have so much to ask you and, as for myself—alas, I wish I had less to tell.”
“Have you seen my husband?” asked Maria.
“I know nobody in Leyden,” he replied, “except my learned, hospitable host, and the doge of this miniature Venice, so rich in water and bridges.”
Georg pointed up the stair-case. Maria blushed again as she said:
“Burgomaster Van der Werff is my husband.”
The nobleman was silent for a short time, then he said quickly:
“He received me kindly. And the pretty elf up yonder?”
“His child by his first marriage, but now mine also. How do you happen to call her the elf?”
“Because she looks as if she had been born among white flowers in the moonlight, and because the afterglow of the sunrise, from which the elves flee, crimsoned her cheeks when I caught her.”
“She has already received the name once,” said Maria. “May I take you to my husband?”
“Not now, Frau Van der Werff, for I must attend to my men outside, but to-morrow, if you will allow me.”
Maria found the dishes smoking on the dining-table. Her family had waited for her, and, heated by the rapid walk at noon, excited by her unexpected meeting with the young German, she opened the door of the study and called to her husband:
“Excuse me! I was detained. It is very late.”
“We were very willing to wait,” he answered kindly, approaching her. Then all she had resolved to do returned to her memory and, for the first time since her marriage, she raised her husband’s hand to her lips. He smilingly withdrew it, kissed her on the forehead, and said:
“It is delightful to have you here.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked, gently shaking her finger at him.
“But we are all here now, and dinner is waiting.”
“Come then,” she answered gaily. “Do you know whom I met on the stairs?”
“English soldiers.”
“Of course, but among them Junker von Dornburg.”
“He called on me. A handsome fellow, whose gayety is very attractive, a German from the evangelical countries.”
“Leonhard’s best friend. Don’t you know? Surely I’ve told you about him. Our guest at Jacoba’s wedding.”
“Oh! yes. Junker Georg. He tamed the chestnut horse for the Prince’s equerry.”
“That was a daring act,” said Maria, drawing a long breath.
“The chestnut is still an excellent horse,” replied Peter. “Leonhard thought the Junker, with his gifts and talents, would lift the world out of its grooves; I remember it well, and now the poor fellow must remain quietly here and be fed by us. How did he happen to join the Englishmen and take part in the war?”
“I don’t know; he only told me that he had had many experiences.”
“I can easily believe it. He is living at the tavern; but perhaps we can find a room for him in the side wing, looking out upon the court-yard.”
“No, Peter,” cried the young wife eagerly. “There is no room in order there.”
“That can be arranged later. At any rate we’ll invite him to dinner to-morrow, he may have something to tell us. There is good marrow in the young man. He begged me not to let him remain idle, but make him of use in the service. Jan Van der Does has already put him in the right place, the new commandant looks into people’s hearts.”
Barbara mingled in the conversation, Peter, though it was a week-day, ordered a jug of wine to be brought instead of the beer, and an event that had not occurred for weeks happened: the master of the house sat at least fifteen minutes with his family after the food had been removed, and told them of the rapid advance of the Spaniards, the sad fate of the fugitive Englishmen, who had been disarmed and led away in sections, the brave defence the Britons, to whose corps Georg belonged, had made at Alfen, and of another hot combat in which Don Gaytan, the right-hand and best officer of Valdez, was said to have fallen. Messengers still went and came on the roads leading to Delft, but to-morrow these also would probably be blocked by the enemy.
He always addressed everything he said to Maria, unless Barbara expressly questioned him, and when he at last rose from the table, ordered a good roast to be prepared the next day for the guest he intended to invite. Scarcely had the door of his room closed behind him, when little Bessie ran up to Maria, threw her arms around her and asked:
“Mother, isn’t Junker Georg the tall captain with the blue feather, who ran down-stairs so fast to meet you?”
“Yes, child.”
“And he’s coming to dinner to-morrow! He’s coming, Adrian.”
The child clapped her hands in delight and then ran to Barbara to exclaim once more:
“Aunt Barbel, did you hear? He’s coming!”
“With the blue feather,” replied the widow.
“And he has curls, curls as long as Assendelft’s little Clara. May I go with you to see Cousin Henrica?”
“Afterwards, perhaps,” replied Maria. “Go now, children, get the flowers and separate them carefully from the leaves. Trautchen will bring some hoops and strings, and then we’ll bind the wreaths.”
Junker Georg’s remark, that this was a lucky day, seemed to be verified; for the young wife found Henrica bright and free from pain. With the doctor’s permission, she had walked up and down her room several times, sat a longer time at the open window, relished her chicken, and when Maria entered, was seated in the softly-cushioned arm-chair, rejoicing in the consciousness of increasing strength.
Maria was delighted at her improved appearance, and told her how well she looked that day.
“I can return the compliment,” replied Henrica. “You look very happy. What has happened to you?”
“To me? Oh! my husband was more cheerful than usual, and there was a great deal to tell at dinner. I’ve only come to enquire for your health. I will see you later. Now I must go with the children to a sorrowful task.”
“With the children? What have the little elf and Signor Salvatore to do with sorrow?”
“Captain Allertssohn will be buried to-morrow, and we are going to make some wreaths for the coffin.”
“Make wreaths!” cried Henrica, “I can teach you that! There, Trautchen, take the plate and call the little ones.”
The servant went away, but Maria said anxiously: “You will exert yourself too much again, Henrica.”
“I? I shall be singing again to-morrow. My preserver’s potion does wonders, I assure you. Have you flowers and oak-leaves enough?”
“I should think so.”
At the last words the door opened and Bessie cautiously entered the room, walking on tiptoe as she had been told, went up to Henrica, received a kiss from her, and then asked eagerly:
“Cousin Henrica, do you know? Junker Georg, with the blue feather, is coming again to-morrow and will dine with us.”
“Junker Georg?” asked the young lady.
Maria interrupted the child’s reply, and answered in an embarrassed tone:
“Herr von Domburg, an officer who came to the city with the Englishmen, of whom I spoke to you—a German—an old acquaintance. Go and arrange the flowers with Adrian, Bessie, then I’ll come and help you.”
“Here, with Cousin Henrica,” pleaded the child.
“Yes, little elf, here; and we’ll both make the loveliest wreath you ever saw.”
The child ran out, and this time, in her delight, forgot to shut the door gently.
The young wife gazed out of the window. Henrica watched her silently for a time and then exclaimed:
“One word, Frau Maria. What is going on in the court-yard? Nothing? And what has become of the happy light in your eyes? Your house isn’t swarming with guests; why did you wait for Bessie to tell me about Junker Georg, the German, the old acquaintance?”
“Let that subject drop, Henrica.”
“No, no! Do you know what I think? The storm of war has blown to your house the young madcap, with whom you spent such happy hours at your sister’s wedding. Am I right or wrong? You needn’t blush so deeply.”
“It is he,” replied Maria gravely. “But if you love me, forget what I told you about him, or deny yourself the idle amusement of alluding to it, for if you should still do so, it would offend me.”
“Why should I! You are the wife of another.”
“Of another whom I honor and love, who trusts me and himself invited the Junker to his house. I have liked the young man, admired his talents, been anxious when he trifled with his life as if it were a paltry leaf, which is flung into the river.”
“And now that you have seen him again, Maria?”
“Now I know, what my duty is. Do you see, that my peace here is not disturbed by idle gossip.”
“Certainly not, Maria; yet I am still curious about this Chevalier Georg and his singing. Unfortunately we shan’t be long together. I want to go home.”
“The doctor will not allow you to travel yet.”
“No matter. I shall go as soon as I feel well enough. My father is refused admittance, but your husband can do much, and I must speak with him.”
“Will you receive him to-morrow?”
“The sooner the better, for he is your husband and, I repeat, the ground is burning under my feet.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Maria.
“That sounds very sad,” cried Henrica. “Do you want to hear, that I shall find it hard to leave you? I shouldn’t go yet; but my sister Anna, she is now a widow—Thank God, I should like to say, but she is suffering want and utterly deserted. I must speak to my father about her, and go forth from the quiet haven into the storm once more.”
“My husband will come to you,” said Maria.
“That’s right, that’s right! Come in, children! Put the flowers on the table yonder. You, little elf, sit down on the stool and you, Salvatore, shall give me the flowers. What does this mean? I really believe the scamp has been putting perfumed oil on his curly head. In honor of me, Salvatore? Thank you!—We shall need the hoops later. First we’ll make bouquets, and then bind them with the leaves to the wood. Sing me a song while we are working, Maria. The first one! I can bear it to-day.”
Half Leyden had followed the brave captain’s coffin, and among the other soldiers, who rendered the last honors to the departed, was Georg von Dornburg. After the funeral, the musician Wilhelm led the son of the kind comrade, whom so many mourned, to his house. Van der Werff found many things to be done after the burial, but reserved the noon hour; for he expected the German to dine.
The burgomaster, as usual, sat at the head of the table; the Junker had taken his place between him and Maria, opposite to Barbara and the children.
The widow never wearied of gazing at the young man’s fresh, bright face, for although her son could not compare with him in beauty, there was an honest expression in the Junker’s eyes, which reminded her of her Wilhelm.
Many a question and answer had already been exchanged between those assembled round the board, many a pleasant memory recalled, when Peter, after the dishes had been removed and a new jug with better wine placed on the table, filled the young nobleman’s glass again, and raised his own.
“Let us drink this bumper,” he cried, gazing at Georg with sincere pleasure in his eyes, “let us drink to the victory of the good cause, for which you too voluntarily draw your sword. Thanks for the vigorous pledge. Drinking is also an art, and the Germans are masters of it.”
“We learn it in various places, and not worst at the University of Jena.”
“All honor to the doctors and professors, who bring their pupils up to the standard of my dead brother-in-law, and judging from this sample drink, you also.”
“Leonhard was my teacher in the ‘ars bibendi.’ How long ago it is!”
“Youth is not usually content,” replied Peter, “but when the point in question concerns years, readily calls ‘much,’ what seems to older people ‘little.’ True, many experiences may have been crowded into the last few years of your life. I can still spare an hour, and as we are all sitting so cosily together here, you can tell us, unless you wish to keep silence on the subject, how you chanced to leave your distant home for Holland, and your German and Latin books to enlist under the English standard.”
“Yes,” added Maria, without any trace of embarrassment. “You still owe me the story. Give thanks, children, and then go.”
Adrian gazed beseechingly first at his mother and then at his father, and as neither forbade him to stay, moved his chair close to his sister, and both leaned their heads together and listened with wide open eyes, while the Junker first quietly, then with increasing vivacity, related the following story:
“You know that I am a native of Thuringia, a mountainous country in the heart of Germany. Our castle is situated in a pleasant valley, through which a clear river flows in countless windings. Wooded mountains, not so high as the giants in Switzerland, yet by no means contemptible, border the narrow boundaries of the valley. At their feet the fields and meadows, at a greater height rise pine forests, which, like the huntsman, wear green robes at all seasons of the year. In winter, it is true, the snow cover them with a glimmering white sheet. When spring comes, the pines put forth new shoots, as fresh and full of sap as the budding foliage of your oaks and beeches, and in the meadows by the river it begins to snow in the warm breezes, for then one fruit-tree blooms beside another, and when the wind rises, the delicate white petals flutter through the air and fall among the bright blossoms in the grass, and on the clear surface of the river. There are also numerous barren cliffs on the higher portions of the mountains, and where they towered in the most rugged, inaccessible ridges, our ancestors built their fastnesses, to secure themselves from the attacks of their enemies. Our castle stands on a mountain-ridge in the midst of the valley of the Saale. There I was born, there I sported through the years of my boyhood, learned to read and guide the pen. There was plenty of hunting in the forests, we had spirited horses in the stable, and, wild lad that I was, I rarely went voluntarily into the school-room, the grey-haired teacher, Lorenz, had to catch me, if he wanted to get possession of me. My sisters and Hans, our youngest child, the boy was only three years younger than I, kept quiet—I had an older brother too, yet did not have him. When his beard was first beginning to grow, he was given by our gracious Duke to Chevalier von Brand as his esquire, and sent to Spain, to buy Andalusian horses. John Frederick’s father had learned their value in Madrid after the battle of Muhlburg. Louis was a merry fellow when he went away, and knew how to tame the wildest stallion. It was hard for our parents to believe him dead, but years elapsed, and as neither he nor Chevalier von Brand appeared, we were obliged to give him up for lost. My mother alone could not do this, and constantly expected his return. My father called me the future heir and lord of the castle. When I had passed beyond boyhood and understood Cicero tolerably well, I was sent to the University of Jena to study law, as my uncle, the chancellor, wished me to become a counsellor of state.
“Oh Jena, beloved Jena! There are blissful days in May and June, when only light clouds float in the sky, and all the leaves and flowers are so fresh and green, that one would think—they probably think so themselves—that they could never fade and wither; such days in human existence are the period of joyous German student life. You can believe it. Leonhard has told you enough of Jena. He understood how to unite work and pleasure; I, on the contrary, learned little on the wooden benches, for I rarely occupied them, and the dust of books certainly didn’t spoil my lungs. But I read Ariosto again and again, devoted myself to singing, and when a storm of feeling seethed within my breast, composed many songs for my own pleasure. We learned to wield the sword too in Jena, and I would gladly have crossed blades with the sturdy fencing-master Allertssohn, of whom you have just told me. Leonhard was older than I, and when he graduated with honor, I was still very weak in the pandects. But we were always one in heart and soul, so I went to Holland with him to attend his wedding. Ah, those were days! The theologians in Jena have actively disputed about the part of the earth, in which the little garden of Paradise should be sought. I considered them all fools, and thought: ‘There is only one Eden, and that lies in Holland, and the fairest roses the dew waked on the first sunny morning, bloom in Delft!’”
At these words Georg shook back his waving locks and hesitated in great embarrassment, but as no one interrupted him and he saw Barbara’s eager face and the children’s glowing cheeks, quietly continued:
“So I came home, and was to learn for the first time, that in life also beautiful sunny days often end with storms. I found my father ill, and a few days after my return he closed his eyes in death. I had never seen any human being die, and the first, the very first, was he, my father.”
Georg paused, and deeply moved, passed his hand over his eyes.
“Your father!” cried Barbara, in a tone of cordial sympathy, breaking the silence. “If we can judge the tree by the apple, he was surely a splendid man.”
The Junker again raised his head, exclaiming with sparkling eyes:
“Unite every good and noble quality, and embody them in the form of a tall, handsome man, then you will have the image of my father;—and I might tell you of my mother—”
“Is she still alive?” asked Peter.
“God grant it!” exclaimed the young man. “I have heard nothing from my family for two months. That is hard. Pleasures smile along every path, and I like my profession of soldier, but it often grieves me sorely to hear so little from home. Oh! if one were only a bird, a sunbeam, or a shooting-star, one might, if only for the twinkling of an eye, learn how matters go at home and fill the soul with fresh gratitude, or, if it must be—but I will not think of that. In the valley of the Saale, the trees are blossoming and a thousand flowers deck all the meadows, just as they do here, and did there two years ago, when I left home for the second time.
“After my father’s death I was the heir, but neither hunting nor riding to court, neither singing nor the clinking of beakers could please me. I went about like a sleep-walker, and it seemed as if I had no right to live without my father. Then—it is now just two years ago—a messenger brought from Weimar a letter which had come from Italy with several others, addressed to our most gracious sovereign; it contained the news that our lost brother was still alive, lying sick and wretched in the hospital at Bergamo. A kind nun had written for him, and we now learned that on the journey from Valencia to Livorno Louis had been captured by corsairs and dragged to Tunis. How much suffering he endured there, with what danger he at last succeeded in obtaining his liberty, you shall learn later. He escaped to Italy on a Genoese galley. His feet carried him as far as Bergamo, but he could go no farther, and now lay ill, perhaps dying, among sympathizing strangers. I set out at once and did not spare horseflesh on the way to Bergamo, but though there were many strange and beautiful things to be seen on my way, they afforded me little pleasure, the thought of Louis, so dangerously ill, saddened my joyous spirits. Every running brook urged me to hasten, and the lofty mountains seemed like jealous barriers. When once beyond St. Gotthard I felt less anxious, and as I rode down from Bellinzona to Lake Lugano, and the sparkling surface of the water beyond the city smiled at me like a blue eye, forgot my grief for a time, waved my hat, and sung a song. In Bergamo I found my brother, alive, but enfeebled in mind and body, weak, and without any desire to take up the burden of life again. He had been in good hands, and after a few weeks we were able to travel homeward—this time I went through beautiful Tyrol. Louis’s strength daily increased, but the wings of his soul had been paralyzed by suffering. Alas, for long years he had dug and carried heavy loads, with chains on his feet, beneath a broiling sun. Chevalier von Brand could not long endure this hard fate, but Louis, while in Tunis, forgot both how to laugh and weep, and which of the two can be most easily spared?
“Even when he saw my mother again, he could not shed a tear, yet his whole body—and surely his heart also—trembled with emotion. Now he lives quietly at the castle. In the prime of manhood he is an old man, but he is beginning to accommodate himself to life, only he can’t bear the sight of a strange face. I had a hard battle with him, for as the eldest son, the castle and estate, according to the law, belong to him, but he wanted to resign his rights and put me in his place. Even when he had brought my mother over to his side, and my uncle and brothers and sisters tried to persuade me to yield to his wish, I remained resolute. I would not touch what did not belong to me, and our youngest boy, Wolfgang, has grown up, and can fill my place wherever it is necessary. When the entreaties and persuasions became too strong for me, I saddled my horse and went away again. It was hard for my mother to let me go, but I had tasted the delight of travelling, and rode off as if to a wedding. If I must be perfectly frank, I’ll confess that I resigned castle and estates like a troublesome restraint. Free as the wind and clouds, I followed the same road over which I had ridden with Leonhard, for in your country a war after my own heart was going on, and my future fortune was to be based upon my sword. In Cologne I enlisted under the banner of Louis of Nassau, and fought with him at Mook Heath till every one retreated. My horse had fallen, my doublet was torn, there was little left save good spirits and the hope of better days. These were soon found, for Captain Gensfort asked me to join the English troops. I became his ensign, and at Alfen held out beside him till the last grain of powder was exhausted. What happened there, you know.”
“And Captain Van der Laen told us,” said Peter, “that he owes his life to you. You fought like a lion.”
“It was wild work enough at the fortifications, yet neither I nor my horse had a hair ruffled, and this time I even saved my knapsack and a full purse. Fate, like mothers, loves troublesome children best, and therefore led me to you and your family, Herr Burgomaster.”
“And I beg you to consider yourself one of them,” replied Peter. “We have two pleasant rooms looking out upon the court-yard; they shall be put in order for you, if you would like to occupy them.”
“With pleasure,” replied the Junker, and Peter, offering him his hand, said:
“The duties of my office call me away, but you can tell the ladies what you need, and when you mean to move in. The sooner, the better we shall be pleased. Shall we not, Maria?”
“You will be welcome, Junker Georg. Now I must look after the invalid we are nursing here. Barbara will ascertain your wishes.”
The young wife took her husband’s hand and left the room with him.
The widow was left alone with the young nobleman and tried to learn everything he desired. Then she followed her sister-in-law, and finding her in Henrica’s room, clapped her hands, exclaiming:
“That is a man! Fraulein, I assure you that, though I’m an old woman, I never met so fine a young fellow in all my life. So much heart, and so handsome too! ‘To whom fortune gives once, it gives by bushels, and unto him that hath, shall be given!’ Those are precious words!”
Peter had promised Henrica, to request the council to give her permission to leave the city.
It was hard for her to part from the burgomaster’s household. Maria’s frank nature exerted a beneficial influence; it seemed as if her respect for her own sex increased in her society. The day before she had heard her sing. The young wife’s voice was like her character. Every note flawless and clear as a bell, and Henrica grieved that she should be forbidden to mingle her own voice with her hostess’s. She was very sorry to leave the children too. Yet she was obliged to go, on Anna’s account, for her father could not be persuaded by letters to do anything. Had she appealed to him in writing to forgive his rejected child, he would hardly have read the epistle to the end. Something might more easily be won from him through words, by taking advantage of a favorable moment. She must have speech with him, yet she dreaded the life in his castle, especially as she was forced to acknowledge, that she too was by no means necessary to her father. To secure the inheritance, he had sent her to a terrible existence with her aunt; while she lay dangerously ill, he had gone to a tournament, and the letter received from him the day before, contained nothing but the information that he was refused admittance to the city, and a summons for her to go to Junker de Heuter’s house at the Hague. Enclosed was a pass from Valdez, enjoining all King Philip’s soldiers to provide for her safety.
The burgomaster had intended to have her conveyed in a litter, accompanied by a flag of truce, as far as the Spanish lines, and the doctor no longer opposed her wish to travel. She hoped to leave that day.
Lost in thought, she stationed herself in the baywindow and gazed out into the court-yard. Several windows in the building on the eastern side stood open. Trautchen must have risen early, for she came out of the rooms arranged for Georg’s occupation, followed by a young assistant carrying various scrubbing utensils. Next Jan appeared with a large arm-chair on his head. Bessie ran after the Frieselander, calling:
“Aunt Barbel’s grandfather’s chair; where will she take her afternoon nap?”
Henrica had heard the words, and thought first of good old “Babetta,” who could also feel tenderly, then of Maria and the man who was to lodge in the rooms opposite. Were there not some loose threads still remaining of the old tie, that had united the burgomaster’s wife to the handsome nobleman? A feeling of dread overpowered her. Poor Meister Peter, poor Maria!
Was it right to abandon the young wife, who had held out a saving hand in her distress? Yet how much nearer was her own sister than this stranger! Each day that she allowed herself to linger in this peaceful asylum, seemed like a theft from Anna—since she had read in a letter from her to her husband, the only one the dead man’s pouch contained, that she was ill and sunk in poverty with her child.
Help was needed here, and no one save herself could offer it.
With aid from Barbara and Maria, she packed her clothes. At noon everything was ready for her departure, and she would not be withheld from eating in the dining-room with the family. Peter was prevented from coming to dinner, Henrica took his seat and, under the mask of loud, forced mirth, concealed the grief and anxieties that filled her heart. At twilight Maria and the children followed her into her room, and she now had the harp brought and sang. At first her voice failed to reach many a note, but as the snow falling from the mountain peaks to the plains at first slides slowly, then rapidly increases in bulk and power, her tones gradually gained fulness and irresistible might and, when at last she rested the harp against the wall and walked to the chair exhausted, Maria clasped her hand and said with deep emotion:
“Stay with us, Henrica.”
“I ought not,” replied the girl.
“You are enough for each other. Shall I take you with me, children?” Adrian lowered his eyes in embarrassment, but Bessie jumped into her lap, exclaiming.
“Where are you going? Stay with us.”
Just at that moment some one knocked at the door, and Peter entered. It was evident that he brought no good tidings. His request had been refused. The council had almost unanimously voted an assent to Van Bronkhorst’s proposition, that the young lady, as a relation of prominent friends of Spain among the Netherland nobility, should be kept in the city. Peter’s representations were unheeded; he now frankly told Henrica what a conflict he had had, and entreated her to have patience and be content to remain in his house as a welcome guest.
The young girl interrupted him with many a passionate exclamation of indignation, and when she grew calmer, cried:
“Oh, you men, you men! I would gladly stay with you, but you know from what this base deed of violence detains me. And then: to be a prisoner, to live weeks, months, without mass and without confession. Yet first and last-merciful Heavens, what will become of my unfortunate sister?”
Maria gazed beseechingly at Peter, and the latter said:
“If you desire the consolations of your religion, I will send Father Damianus to you, and you can hear mass with the Grey Sisters, who live beside us, as often as you desire. We are not fighting against your religion, but for the free exercise of every faith, and the whole city stands open to you. My wife will help you bear your anxiety about your sister far better than I could do, but let me say this: wherever and however I can help you, it shall be done, and not merely in words.”
So saying, he held out his hand to Henrica. She gave him hers, exclaiming:
“I have cause to thank you, I know, but please leave me now and give me time to think until tomorrow.”
“Is there no way of changing the decision of the council?” Maria asked her husband.
“No, certainly not.”
“Well, then,” said the young wife earnestly, “you must remain our guest. Anxiety for your sister does not cloud your pleasure alone, but saddens me too. Let us first of all provide for her. How are the roads to Delft?”
“They are cut, and no one will be able to pass after to-morrow or the day after.”
“Then calm yourself, Henrica, and let us consider what is to be done.”
The questions and counter-questions began, and Henrica gazed in astonishment at the delicate young wife, for with unerring resolution and keenness, she held the first voice in the consultation. The surest means of gaining information was to seek that very day a reliable messenger, by whom to send Anna d’Avila money, and if possible bring her to Holland. The burgomaster declared himself ready to advance from his own property, a portion of the legacy bequeathed Henrica’s sister by Fraulein Van Hoogstraten, and accepted his guest’s thanks without constraint.
“But whom could they send?”
Henrica thought of Wilhelm; he was her sister’s friend.
“But he is in the military service,” replied the burgomaster. “I know him. He will not desert the city in these times of trouble, not even for his mother.”
“But I know the right messenger,” said Maria. “We’ll send Junker Georg.”
“That’s a good suggestion,” said Peter. “We shall find him in his lodgings. I must go to Van Hout, who lives close by, and will send the German to you. But my time is limited, and with such gentlemen, fair women can accomplish more than bearded men. Farewell, dear Fraulein, once more—we rejoice to have you for our guest.”
When the burgomaster had left the room, Henrica said:
“How quickly, and how differently from what I expected, all this has happened. I love you. I am under obligations to you, but to be imprisoned, imprisoned. The walls will press upon me, the ceiling will seem like a weight. I don’t know whether I ought to rejoice or despair. You have great influence with the Junker. Tell him about Anna, touch his heart, and if he would go, it would really be best for us both.”
“You mean for you and your sister,” replied Maria with a repellent gesture of the hand. “There is the lamp. When the Junker comes, we shall see each other again.”
Maria went to her room and threw herself on the couch, but soon rose and paced restlessly to and fro. Then stretching out her clasped hands, she exclaimed:
“Oh, if he would only go, if he would only go! Merciful God! Kind, gracious Father in Heaven, grant him every happiness, every blessing, but save my peace of mind; let him go, and lead him far, far away from here.”
The tavern where Georg von Dornburg lodged stood on the “broad street,” and was a fine building with a large court-yard, in which were numerous vehicles. On the left of the entrance was a large open room entered through a lofty archway. Here the drivers and other folk sat over their beer and wine, suffering the innkeeper’s hens to fly on the benches and even sometimes on the table, here vegetables were cleaned, boiled and fried, here the stout landlady was frequently obliged to call her sturdy maid and men servants to her aid, when her guests came to actual fighting, or some one drank more than was good for him. Here the new custom of tobacco-smoking was practised, though only by a few sailors who had served on Spanish ships—but Frau Van Aken could not endure the acrid smoke and opened the windows, which were filled with blooming pinks, slender stalks of balsam, and cages containing bright-plumaged goldfinches. On the side opposite to the entrance were two closed rooms. Above the door of one, neatly carved in wood, were the lines from Horace:
Only a few chosen guests found admittance into this long, narrow apartment. It was completely wainscoted with wood, and from the centre of the richly-carved ceiling a strange picture gleamed in brilliant hues. This represented the landlord. The worthy man with the smooth face, firmly-closed lips, and long nose, which offered an excellent straight line to its owner’s burin, sat on a throne in the costume of a Roman general, while Vulcan and Bacchus, Minerva and Poinona, offered him gifts. Klaus Van Aken, or as he preferred to be called, Nicolaus Aquanus, was a singular man, who had received good gifts from more than one of the Olympians; for besides his business he zealously devoted himself to science and several of the arts. He was an excellent silver-smith, a die-cutter and engraver of great skill, had a remarkable knowledge of coins, was an industrious student and collector of antiquities. His little tap-room was also a museum; for on the shelves, that surrounded it, stood rare objects of every description, in rich abundance and regular order; old jugs and tankards, large and small coins, gems in carefully-sealed glass-cases, antique lamps of clay and bronze, stones with ancient Roman inscriptions, Roman and Greek terra-cotta, polished fragments of marble which he had found in Italy among the ruins, the head of a faun, an arm, a foot and other bits of Pagan works of art, a beautifully-enamelled casket of Byzantine work, and another with enamelled ornamentation from Limoges. Even half a Roman coat of mail and a bit of mosaic from a Roman bath were to be seen here. Amid these antiquities, stood beautiful Venetian glasses, pine-cones and ostrich-eggs. Such another tap-room could scarcely be found in Holland, and even the liquor, which a neatly-dressed maid poured for the guests from oddly-shaped tankards into exquisitely-wrought goblets, was exceptionally fine. In this room Herr Aquanus himself was in the habit of appearing among his guests; in the other, opposite to the entrance, his wife held sway.
On this day, the “Angulus,” as the beautiful taproom was called, was but thinly occupied, for the sun had just set, though the lamps were already lighted. These rested in three-branched iron chandeliers, every portion of which, from the slender central shaft to the intricately-carved and twisted ornaments, had been carefully wrought by Aquanus with his own hand.
Several elderly gentlemen were at one table enjoying their wine, while at another were Captain Van der Laen, a brave Hollander, who was receiving English pay and had come to the city with the other defenders of Alfen, the Musician Wilhelm, Junker Georg, and the landlord.
“It’s a pleasure to meet people like you, Junker,” said Aquanus. “You’ve travelled with your eyes open, and what you tell me about Brescia excites my curiosity. I Should have liked to see the inscription.”
“I’ll get it for you,” replied the young man; “for if the Spaniards don’t send me into another world, I shall certainly cross the Alps again. Did you find any of these Roman antiquities in your own country?”
“Yes. At the Roomburg Canal, perhaps the site of the old Praetorium, and at Katwyk. The forum Hadriani was probably located near Voorburg. The coat of mail, I showed you, came from there.”
“An old, green, half-corroded thing,” cried Georg. “And yet! What memories the sight of it awakens! Did not some Roman armorer forge it for the wandering emperor? When I look at this coat of mail, Rome and her legions appear before my eyes. Who would not, like you, Herr Wilhelna, go to the Tiber to increase the short span of the present by the long centuries of the past!”
“I should be glad to go to Italy once more with you,” replied Wilhelm.
“And I with you.”
“Let us first secure our liberty,” said the musician. “When that is accomplished, each individual will belong to himself, and then: why should I conceal it, nothing will keep me in Leyden.”
“And the organ? Your father?” asked Aquanus.
“My brothers will remain here, snug in their own nest,” answered Wilhelm. “But something urges, impels me—”
“There are still waters and rivers on earth,” interrupted Georg, “and in the sky the fixed stars remain quiet and the planets cannot cease from wandering. So among human beings, there are contented persons, who like their own places, and birds of passage like us. To be sure, you needn’t go to Italy to hear fine singing. I just heard a voice, a voice—”
“Where? You make me eager.”
“In the court-yard of Herr Van der Werff’s house.”
“That was his wife.”
“Oh, no! Her voice sounds differently.”
During this conversation, Captain Van der Laen had risen and examined the landlord’s singular treasures. He was now standing before a board, on which the head of an ox was sketched in charcoal, freely, boldly and with perfect fidelity to nature.
“What magnificent piece of beef is this?” he asked the landlord.
“No less a personage than Frank Floris sketched it,” replied Aquanus. “He once came here from Brussels and called on Meister Artjen. The old man had gone out, so Floris took a bit of charcoal and drew these lines with it. When Artjen came home and found the ox’s head, he stood before it a long time and finally exclaimed: ‘Frank Floris, or the devil!’ This story—But there comes the burgomaster. Welcome, Meister Peter. A rare honor.”
All the guests rose and respectfully greated Van der Werff; Georg started up to offer him his chair. Peter sat down for a short time and drank a glass of wine, but soon beckoned to the Junker and went out with him into the street.
There he briefly requested him to go to his house, for they had an important communication to make, and then went to Van Hout’s residence, which was close beside the inn.
Georg walked thoughtfully towards the burgomaster’s.
The “they” could scarcely have referred to any one except Maria. What could she want of him at so late an hour? Had his friend regretted having offered him lodgings in her own house? He was to move into his new quarters early next morning; perhaps she wished to inform him of this change of mind, before it was too late. Maria treated him differently from before, there was no doubt of that, but surely this was natural! He had dreamed of a different, far different meeting! He had come to Holland to support the good cause of Orange, yet he would certainly have turned his steed towards his beloved Italy, where a good sword was always in demand, instead of to the north, had he not hoped to find in Holland her, whom he had never forgotten, for whom he had never ceased to long—Now she was the wife of another, a man who had shown him kindness, given him his confidence. To tear his love from his heart was impossible; but he owed it to her husband and his own honor to be strong, to resolutely repress every thought of possessing her, and only rejoice in seeing her; and this he must try to accomplish.
He had told himself all these things more than once, but realized that he was walking with unsteady steps, upon a narrow pathway, when she met him outside the dining-room and he felt how cold and tremulous was the hand she laid in his.
Maria led the way, and he silently followed her into Henrica’s room. The latter greeted him with a friendly gesture, but both ladies hesitated to utter the first word. The young man turned hastily, noticed that he was in the room overlooking the court-yard, and said, eagerly: “I was down below just before twilight, to look at my new quarters, and heard singing from this room, and such singing! At first I didn’t know what was coming, for the tones were husky, weak, and broken, but afterwards—afterwards the melody burst forth like a stream of lava through the ashes. We ought to wish many sorrows to one, who can lament thus.”
“You shall make the singer’s acquaintance,” said Maria, motioning towards the young girl. “Fraulein Henrica Van Hoogstraten, a beloved guest in our house.”
“Were you the songstress?” asked Georg.
“Does that surprise you?” replied Henrica. “My voice has certainly retained its strength better than my body, wasted by long continued suffering. I feel how deeply my eyes are sunken and how pale I must be. Singing certainly lightens pain, and I have been deprived of the comforter long enough. Not a note has passed my lips for weeks, and now my heart aches so, that I would far rather weep than sing. ‘What troubles me?’ you will ask, and yet Maria gives me courage to request a chivalrous service, almost without parallel, at your hands.”
“Speak, speak,” Georg eagerly exclaimed. “If Frau Maria summons me and I can serve you, dear lady: here I am, dispose of me.”
Henrica did not avoid his frank glance, as she replied:
“First hear what a great service we ask of you. You must prepare yourself to hear a short story. I am still weak and have put my strength to a severe test to-day, Maria must speak for me.”
The young wife fulfilled this task quietly and clearly, closing with the words:
“The messenger we need, I have found myself. You must be he, Junker Georg.”
Henrica had not interrupted the burgomaster’s wife; but now said warmly
“I have only made your acquaintance to-day, but I trust you entirely. A few hours ago, black would have been my color, but if you will be my knight, I’ll choose cheerful green, for I now begin to hope again. Will you venture to take the ride for me?”
Hitherto Georg had gazed silently at the floor. Now he raised his head, saying:
“If I can obtain leave of absence, I will place myself at your disposal;—but my lady’s color is blue, and I am permitted to wear no other.”
Henrica’s lips quivered slightly, but the young nobleman continued:
“Captain Van der Laen is my superior officer. I’ll speak to him at once.”
“And if he says no?” asked Maria.
Henrica interrupted her and answered haughtily: “Then I beg you to send me Herr Wilhelm, the musician.”
Georg bowed and went to the tavern.
As soon as the ladies were alone, the young girl asked:
“Do you know Herr von Dornburg’s lady?”
“How should I?” replied Maria. “Give yourself a little rest, Fraulein. As soon as the Junker comes back, I’ll bring him to you.”
The young wife left the room and seated herself at the spinning-wheel with Barbara. Georg kept them waiting a long time, but at midnight again appeared, accompanied by two companions. It was not within the limits of the captain’s authority to grant him a leave of absence for several weeks—the journey to Italy would have required that length of time—but the Junker had consulted the musician, and the latter had found the right man, with whom Wilhelm speedily made the necessary arrangements, and brought him without delay: it was the old steward, Belotti.