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.