Adrian hurried home with his vial, and in his joy at bringing the
sick lady relief, forgot her headache and struck the knocker violently
against the door. Barbara received him with a by no means flattering
greeting, but he was so full of the happiness of possessing the
dearly-bought treasure, that he fearlessly interrupted his aunt’s
reproving words, by exclaiming eagerly, in the consciousness of his good
cause:
“You’ll see; I have something here for the young lady; where is mother?”
Barbara perceived that the boy was the bearer of some good tidings,
which engrossed his whole attention, and the fresh happy face pleased
her so much, that she forgot to scold and said smiling:
“You make me very curious; what is the need of so much hurry?”
“I’ve bought something; is mother up-stairs?”
“Yes, show me what you have bought.”
“A remedy. Infallible, I tell you; a remedy for headache.”
“A remedy for headache?” asked the widow in astonishment. “Who told you
that fib?”
“Fib?” repeated the boy, laughing. “I got it below cost.”
“Show it to me, boy,” said Barbara authoritatively, snatching at the
vial, but Adrian stepped back, hid the medicine behind him, and replied:
“No, aunt; I shall take it to mother myself.”
“Did one ever hear of such a thing!” cried the widow. “Donkeys dance
on ropes, school-boys dabble in doctor’s business! Show me the thing at
once! We want no quack wares.”
“Quack wares!” replied Adrian eagerly. “It cost all my fair money, and
it’s good medicine.”
During this little discussion Doctor Bontius came down-stairs with the
burgomaster’s wife. He had heard the boy’s last words and asked sternly:
“Where did you get the stuff?”
With these words, he seized the hand of the lad, who did not venture to
resist the stern man, took the little vial and printed directions from
him and, after Adrian had curtly answered: “From Doctor Morpurgo!”
continued angrily:
“The brew is good to be thrown away; only we must take care not to
poison the fishes with it, and the thing cost half a florin. You’re
a rich young man, Meister Adrian! If you have any superfluous capital
again, you can lend it to me.”
These words spoiled the boy’s pleasure, but did not convince him, and he
defiantly turned half away from the physician. Barbara understood what
was passing in his mind, and whispered compassionately to the doctor and
her sister-in-law:
“All his fair money to help the young lady.”
Maria instantly approached the disappointed child, drew his curly head
towards her and silently kissed his forehead, while the doctor read the
printed label, then without moving a muscle, said as gravely as ever:
“Morpurgo isn’t the worst of quacks, the remedy he prescribes here may
do the young lady good after all.” Adrian had been nearer crying than
laughing. Now he uttered a sigh of relief, but still clasped Maria’s
hand firmly, as he again turned his face towards the doctor, listening
intently while the latter continued:
“Two parts buckbeans, one part pepper-wort, and half a part valerian.
The latter specially for women. Let it steep in boiling water and drink
a cupful cold every morning and evening! Not bad--really not bad. You
have found a good remedy, my worthy colleague.
“I had something else to say to you, Adrian. My boys are going to the
English riders this evening, and would be glad to have you accompany
them. You can begin with the decoction to-day.”
The physician bowed to the ladies and went on; Barbara followed him into
the street, asking:
“Are you in earnest about the prescription?”
“Of course, of course,” replied the doctor, “my grandmother used this
remedy for headache, and she was a sensible woman. Evening and morning,
and the proper amount of sleep.”
Henrica occupied a pretty, tastefully-furnished room. The windows
looked out upon the quiet court-yard, planted with trees, adjoining the
chamois-leather work shops. She was allowed to sit up part of the day
in a cushioned arm-chair, supported by pillows. Her healthy constitution
was rapidly rallying. True, she was still weak, and the headache spoiled
whole days and nights. Maria’s gentle and thoughtful nature exerted a
beneficial influence upon her, and she cheerfully welcomed Barbara, with
her fresh face and simple, careful, helpful ways.
When Maria told her about the purchase Adrian had made for her, she was
moved to tears; but to the boy she concealed her grateful emotion under
jesting words, and greeted him with the exclamation:
“Come nearer, my preserver, and give me your hand.”
Afterwards, she always called him “my preserver” or, as she liked to
mingle Italian words with her Dutch, “Salvatore” or “Signor Salvatore.”
She was particularly fond of giving the people, with whom she
associated, names of her own, and so called Barbara, whose Christian
name she thought frightful, “Babetta,” and little slender, pretty
Bessie, whose company she specially enjoyed, “the elf.” The
burgomaster’s wife only remained “Frau Maria,” and when the latter once
jestingly asked the cause of such neglect, Henrica replied that she
suited her name and her name her; had she been called Martha, she would
probably have named her “Maria.”
The invalid had passed a pleasant, painless day, and when towards
evening Adrian went to see the English riders and the fragrance of the
blooming lindens and the moonlight found their way through the open
windows of her room, she begged Barbara not to bring a light, and
invited Maria to sit down and talk with her.
From Adrian and Bessie the conversation turned upon their own childhood.
Henrica had grown up among her father’s boon companions, amid the
clinking of glasses and hunting-shouts, Maria in a grave burgher
household, and what they told each other seemed like tidings from a
strange world.
“It was easy for you to become the tall, white lily you are now,” said
Henrica, “but I must thank the saints, that I came off as well as I
did, for we really grew up like weeds, and if I hadn’t had a taste for
singing and the family priest hadn’t been such an admirable musician, I
might stand before you in a still worse guise. When will the doctor let
me hear you sing?”
“Next week; but you musn’t expect too much. You have too high an opinion
of me. Remember the proverb about still waters. Here in the depths it
often looks far less peaceful, than you probably suppose.”
“But you have learned to keep the surface calm when it storms; I
haven’t. A strange stillness has stolen over me here. Whether I owe it
to illness or to the atmosphere that pervades this house, I can’t tell,
but how long will it last? My soul used to be like the sea, when the
hissing waves plunge into black gulfs, the seagulls scream, and the
fishermen’s wives pray on the shore. Now the sea is calm. Don’t be too
much frightened, if it begins to rage again.”
At these words Maria clasped the excited girl’s hands, saying
beseechingly:
“Be quiet, be quiet, Henrica. You must think only of your recovery now.
And shall I confess something? I believe everything hard can be more
easily borne, if we can cast it impatiently forth like the sea of which
you speak; with me one thing is piled on another and remains lying
there, as if buried under the sand.”
“Until the hurricane comes, that sweeps it away. I don’t want to be an
evil prophet, but you surely remember these words. What a wild, careless
thing I was! Then a day came, that made a complete revolution in my
whole nature.”
“Did a false love wound you?” asked Maria modestly.
“No, except the false love of another,” replied Henrica bitterly. “When
I was a child this fluttering heart often throbbed more quickly, I
don’t know how often. First I felt something more than reverence for
the one-eyed chaplain, our music-teacher, and every morning placed fresh
flowers on his window, which he never noticed. Then--I was probably
fifteen--I returned the ardent glances of Count Brederode’s pretty page.
Once he tried to be tender, and received a blow from my riding-whip.
Next came a handsome young nobleman, who wanted to marry me when I was
barely sixteen, but he was even more heavily in debt than my father, so
he was sent home. I shed no tears for him, and when, two months after,
at a tournament in Brussels, I saw Don Frederic, the son of the great
Duke of Alva, fancied myself as much in love with him as ever any lady
worshipped her Amadis, though the affair never went beyond looks. Then
the storm, of which I have already spoken, burst, and that put an end to
love-making. I will tell you more about this at some future time; I need
not conceal it, for it has been no secret. Have you ever heard of my
sister? No? She was older than I, a creature-God never created
anything more perfect. And her singing! She came to my dead aunt’s, and
there--But I won’t excite myself uselessly--in short, the man whom she
loved with all the strength of her heart thrust her into misery, and
my father cursed and would not stretch out a finger to aid her. I never
knew my mother, but through Anna I never missed her. My sister’s fate
opened my eyes to men. During the last few years many have wanted me,
but I lacked confidence and, still more, love, for I shall never have
anything to do with that.”
“Until it finds you,” replied Maria. “It was wrong to speak of such
things with you, it excites you, and that is bad.”
“Never mind; it will do me good to relieve my heart. Did you love no one
before your husband?”
“Love? No, Henrica, I never really loved any one except him.”
“And your heart waited for the burgomaster, ere it beat faster?”
“No, it had not always remained quiet before; I grew up among social
people, old and young, and of course liked some better than others.”
“And surely one best of all.”
“I won’t deny it. At my sister’s wedding, my brother-in-law’s friend, a
young nobleman, came from Germany and remained several weeks with us. I
liked him, and remember him kindly even now.”
“Have you never heard from him again?”
“No; who knows what has become of him. My brother-in-law expected great
things from him, and he possessed many rare gifts, but was reckless,
fool-hardy, and a source of constant anxiety to his mother.”
“You must tell me more about him.”
“What is the use, Henrica?”
“I don’t want to talk any more, but I should like to be still, inhale
the fragrance of the lindens, and listen, only listen.”
“No, you must go to bed now. I’ll help you undress and, when you have
been alone an hour, come back again.”
“One learns obedience in your house, but when my preserver comes home,
bring him here. He must tell me about the English riders. There
comes Frau Babetta with his decoction. You shall see that I take it
punctually.”
The boy returned home late, for he had enjoyed all the glories of the
fair with the doctor’s children. He was permitted to pay only a short
visit to Henrica, and did not see his father at all, the latter having
gone to a night council at Herr Van Bronkhorst’s.
The next morning the fair holidays were to end, school would begin and
Adrian had intended to finish his tasks this evening; but the visit
to the English riders had interfered, and he could not possibly appear
before the rector without his exercise. He frankly told Maria so, and
she cleared a place for him at the table where she was sewing, and
helped the young scholar with many a word and rule she had learned with
her dead brother.
When it lacked only half an hour of midnight, Barbara entered, saying:
“That’s enough now. You can finish the rest early to-morrow morning
before school.”
Without waiting for Maria’s reply, she closed the boy’s books and pushed
them together.
While thus occupied, the room shook with rude blows on the door of the
house. Maria threw down her sewing and started from her seat, while
Barbara exclaimed:
“For Heaven’s sake, what is it?” Adrian rushed into his father’s room
and opened the window.
The ladies had hurried after him, and before they could question the
disturber of the peace, a deep voice called:
“Open, I must come in.”
“What is it?” asked Barbara, who recognized a soldier in the moonlight.
“We can’t hear our own voices; stop that knocking.”
“Call the burgomaster!” shouted the messenger, who had been constantly
using the knocker. “Quick, woman; the Spaniards are coming.”
Barbara shrieked aloud and beat her hands. Maria turned pale, but
without losing her composure, replied: “The burgomaster is not at home,
but I’ll send for him. Quick, Adrian, call your father.”
The boy rushed down-stairs, meeting in the entry the man-servant
and Trautchen, who had jumped hastily out of bed, throwing on an
under-petticoat, and was now trying, with trembling hands, to unlock the
door. The man pushed her aside, and as soon as the door creaked on its
hinges, Adrian darted out and ran, as if in a race, down the street
to the commissioner’s. Arriving before any other messenger, he pressed
through the open door into the dining-hall and called breathlessly to
the men, who were holding a council over their wine:
“The Spaniards are here!”
The gentlemen hastily rose from their seats. One wanted to rush to the
citadel, another to the town-hall and, in the excitement of the moment,
no sensible reflection was made. Peter Van der Werff alone maintained
his composure and, after Allertssohn’s messenger had appeared and
reported that the captain and his men were on the way to Leyderdorp, the
burgomaster pointed out that the leaders’ care should now be devoted
to the people who had come to the fair. He and Van Hout undertook to
provide for them, and Adrian was soon standing with his father and the
city clerk among the crowds of people, who had been roused from sleep by
the wailing iron voice from the Tower or Pancratius.