"Hi, Mietje, come here!"
She sprang up, and jumped lightly over the fence, but when she came
within a few yards of the stranger she stopped, looked at him for a
moment, covered her face with her hands, and turned to go away. In a
few rapid strides the soldier overtook her, and caught her gently by
the arm. He was secretly flattered by the embarrassment of the young
peasant girl. Silent, but blushing red as a poppy, she looked down,
and the blue-green of her eyes could be seen beneath the fair lashes.
She tried to turn away and escape the scrutiny of the gallant.
"Bless me, what a pretty little puss!" he exclaimed. "Tell me, my
beautiful one, where do such dainty maidens come from?"
"I come from Viersel," she replied, in a very timid voice.
"Then we are neighbors, and almost fellow-villagers, for I live at
Wildonck, and was on my way thither."
"You will never reach it, if you follow this road."
"Egad! I don't deny it, my pretty one! A moment ago I thought myself a
fool for losing my way. Now I bless my stupidity."
She did not reply to this compliment, but flushed crimson.
He would not set her free. The vision of Begga, sullen and displeased
at the loss of the knife, grew fainter and fainter. In this frame of
mind he welcomed the stranger gladly, as a pleasant diversion from the
thoughts which had tormented him just before.
"What is your name, my flower of Viersel?"
"Hendrika Let--Rika."
"That has always been one of my favorite names. It was my mother's. Do
your parents live far from here?"
"My parents! I never knew them. I am a servant at _boer_ Verhulst's,
whose farm you see down there, a short distance away behind the
alder-trees."
"You do not ask my name, Rika?"
She was burning to know the name of the beloved one, for he was indeed
the brilliant visitor of the enchanted night. She stilled the
throbbing of her beating heart, and pretended to show only the polite
indifference which an honest girl would feel to an agreeable passer-by
who accosted her on the road.
"You shrug your shoulders and pout, Rika! Of what interest is a
soldier's name to you? Probably he is a bad fellow, as the cure
preaches,--a spendthrift, a deceiver of women. Well, I will tell you
all the same. I am Cornelis Davie, otherwise Kors, Kors the Black, now
brigadier in the first battery of the fifth regiment of artillery,
stationed at Fort IV., at Vieux-Dieu, near Antwerp. In two months I
shall return to Wildonck for good, and take up the management of the
Stork Farm, for old Davie has worked long enough. Then, Rika, Kors
Davie will marry. Can you not suggest some girl for him, my sweet
Rika? Do you think he will find some fair ones to choose from at
Viersel?"
"I think you are getting further and further away from Wildonck!" said
the coquette.
It was true; they had walked along together, and the canal was now far
behind them.
"You rogue!" said Kors, a little annoyed. "Why need you remind me of
the moment of parting?"
"If you follow this road, you may perhaps arrive to-morrow. Farewell,
my soldier. My cows may go astray as you have."
The happy girl pretended to move away. This time he seized her round
the waist, and holding her in his arms, repeated again and again. "You
are beautiful, Rika!"
"If our Viersel lads saw you so foolish, they would laugh at you. Are
there no girls at Wildonck, or in the town?"
"The devil take the lads of Viersel, the girls of Wildonck, and the
women of Antwerp! I will win you from all the men in your village,
sweet one! you are more beautiful to me than all the girls of my
native place! Rika, if you will consent, our marriage shall be fixed."
"This love will not last."
He pressed her more closely to him.
"Let me go, let me go, brigadier, or I shall scream. You have surely
been drinking. There are several inns between here and your fort, are
there not? What would people say if they met me with you? Ah! to the
right there is a road which branches off and will take you home. Be
off! Good-night!"
The susceptible Davie had now forgotten the very existence of the fair
and prudent Begga Leuven.
"Well, if it must be, I will go!" he said, in a firm yet tender voice.
"But one word more, Rika. If I return in three days' time; if I repeat
then that I love you madly; if I ask you to be my wife, will you
refuse me?"
"Cornelis Davie is making fun of Rika Let; land-owners do not marry
their farm servants."
"I swear that I am in earnest! I have one desire, one wish only. Rika,
when I return in three days' time, on Monday, will you meet me here?"
A feeble consent was wrung from her.
When Kors tried to kiss her lips, she had not the strength to resist;
she returned his kiss passionately.
Then, not without a pang, he walked rapidly in the direction of the
foot-path, not daring to look back.
Breathless with excitement and triumph, Rika followed him with her
eyes, until he was lost behind a leafy clump of oaks.
* * * * *
It was fair-time again, but now Rika Let was happy; she dined at
Viersel with her former employers the Verhulsts, accompanied by her
husband, the fine Kors Davie of Wildonck, Kors the Black, the owner of
the Stork Farm.
Poor old Davie had fretted and died! Ah! the sorcery of old Zanne
Hokespokes was indeed potent; she had changed the loyal Kors into an
undutiful son and a faithless lover. Poor Begga was helpless against
the spells of the Devil. Nothing could do away with the power of the
incantation. "Do not be unhappy, sweet Begga! Marry tall Mile, the
lock-keeper; he has neither the money nor the manly bearing of the
ex-brigadier, but he will love you better."
It was just a year ago, to the day, since Rika Let consulted the
witch. The poor dairymaid had reaped ample revenge for the slights
cast upon her. She wished to pay a visit to the Verhulsts' and
introduce her rich husband to them, for the Verhulsts' wealth was
nothing compared to that of the Davies.
Rika was gorgeously dressed. Think, _baezine_ Verhulst, of offering
her a woolen kerchief from Suske Derk's stall! Feel the silk of her
dress; it cost ten francs a yard, neither more nor less. The lace on
her large fete-cap is worth the price of at least three fat pigs, and
the diamond heart, a jewel which belonged to the late _baezine_ Davie,
the mother of Kors, hanging round her throat on a massive gold chain,
is more valuable than all your trinkets!
At midday there was feasting at the Verhulsts' farm in honor of the
fair, and more especially to welcome the Davies. Masters, friends,
plowmen and haymakers, all with good appetite, seated themselves round
a table laden with enormous dishes brought in by the farmer's wife and
Rika's successor.
The obsequious Madame Verhulst overpowered her former servant with
attention.
"_Baezine_ Davie, take one of these _carbonades_? They are soft as
butter.... A slice of ham? It's fit for a king. Or perhaps you will
have some more of this chine, which has been specially kept for your
visit? Or a spoonful of saffron rice? It melts in the mouth."
"You are very kind, Madame Verhulst, but we breakfasted late just
before starting.... Kors, have our horses been fed?"
"Do not be afraid, _baezine_ Davie; Verhulst will see to that
himself."
Kors, who was more and more in love with his wife, presided at the
men's end of the table; near him sat Odo and Freek Verhulst, who had
formerly treated Rika so disdainfully. Kors, well shaven, rubicund,
merry, and wearing a dark-blue smock-frock, looked lovingly and
longingly in the direction of his wife.
A savory smell filled the large room, the steam dimmed the copper
ornaments on the chimney-piece, the crucifix, the candlesticks, the
plates, which were formerly the pride of the cleanly Rika.
At first the guests gravely and solemnly satisfied their hunger,
without saying a word. Then came the bumpers to wash down the viands,
for mealy Polder potatoes make one thirsty! As the tankards were
re-filled, tongues were loosed, and jokes piquant as the waters of the
Scheldt flew apace.
Later, coffee, together with white bread and butter, sprinkled with
currants, was served for the ladies. The men bestirred themselves
unwillingly. Silently and solemnly they filled their pipes and smoked,
while the old gossips and white-capped young girls chattered like
magpies. The low-roofed houses of the village, which stand at the foot
of the steeple pointing upward as the watchful finger of God, fade in
the gathering twilight.
Before the bugles and violins struck up in the Golden Swan, whither
_baezine_ Davie was longing to go with her husband, the proud Rika
took him by the arm and showed him round the Verhulsts's farm. After
visiting the cowsheds, the stables, the pig-sties, and the dairy, they
climbed to the garret where Rika used to sleep. The same little camp
bed stood there, the same broken mirror, the solitary rickety stool. A
feeling of emotion, mingled perhaps with remorse, overcame the pretty
farmer's wife at sight of the familiar objects, and she threw herself
into her husband's arms. The young farmer kissed her passionately over
and over again. Rika sat on his knee with his arms around her, and
they were oblivious to all save their love....
Below in the court-yard shrill voices called to them; it was time for
the dances.
"There is no need to hasten, is there, my Rika?"
"Kors, my well-beloved," Rika said at last with a sigh, after a long
and delicious silence, "do you not remember this room?"
"What a strange question, little woman! you know this is the first
time I have crossed the threshold!"
"Are you certain?"
She laughed, amused at his puzzled, half-angry, half good-natured
look.
"Have you ever lost anything, Kors?" she persisted.
"Be done with riddles! Rather let us go and dance," replied Kors,
relieved for the moment by the strident tones of the music, and the
sound of dancing.
_Houps! Lourelourela!_ Rich and poor joined in the dance, their
figures outlined like black imps against the red windows of the Golden
Swan.
"One word more," said Rika, catching hold of Kors's blouse; "have you
no recollection of a little thing which you lost one night on a
journey?"
"No more enigmas for me, sweet one; let us be off. My feet itch for
the dance."
"Must I remind you?--look!"
She drew Begga Leuven's knife from her pocket.
He turned and held out his hand. At touch of the knife, the
remembrance of that strange night came back to him. Again he saw the
hideous old woman who pursued him with blows; he crossed heath and
swamp, his sword caught in the brushwood; he ran until he was
breathless.... But now he understood more than he did on that morning
when he told his nightmare to his loyal friend Warner Cats, the
intimate friend whom he had lost in consequence of his willful
marriage.... He recognized this accursed garret, where he had lost the
pretty knife, a present from his first lover. Reason returned, and
with it all his pure and holy passion for Begga. She who was called
_baezine_ Davie had won him by sorcery. To kiss her lips he forsook
Begga, his gentle comrade; later, he was deaf to the curses of his
grandfather, he was indifferent when Begga married tall Mile, and he
shed no tears at the grave of the father whose death was brought about
by his disgraceful marriage.
And she, the abominable accomplice of the sorceress, still clung to
him,--the vampire!
The pale moon had risen, and now bathed the attic in silver rays
tinged with blue.
Rika sank to the ground beneath the unrecognizing glance of Kors; she
stretched out her hands to ward off what she felt must come.
In Black Kors's contracted, bloodless hand, the open knife shone as on
the night of the charm.
Between two harsh and vibrating strains of music which came from the
Golden Swan, a discordant burst of laughter echoed across the silent
tragic plain surrounding Verhulst Farm.
At that moment, Kors in a fit of delirium plunged the knife into
Rika's breast.... She fell without uttering a cry.
Did not the incantation run:--"I command thee, charmed plant, to bring
me the man who will wound me as I wound thee"?