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.”