The Burgomasters Wife | Page 7

of pondering and hesitating? Adrian summoned
up all his courage, clenched his teeth, clasped his right hand still closer
around the torn ruffles in his pocket, and struck the knocker loudly on
the steel plate beneath.
Trautchen, the old maid-servant, opened the door, and in the spacious,
dusky entrance-hall, where the bales of leather were packed closely
together, did not notice the dilapidation of his outer man.
He hurried swiftly up the stairs.
The dining-room door was open, and--marvellous--the table was still
untouched, his father must have remained at the town-hall longer than
usual.
Adrian rushed with long leaps to his little attic room, dressed himself
neatly, and entered the presence of his family before the master of the

house had asked the blessing.
The doublet and stocking could be confided to the hands of Aunt
Barbara or Trautchen, at some opportune hour.
Adrian sturdily attacked the smoking dishes; but his heart soon grew
heavy, for his father did not utter a word, and gazed into vacancy as
gravely and anxiously as at the time when misery entered the
beleaguered city.
The boy's young step-mother sat opposite her husband, and often
glanced at Peter Van der Werff's grave face to win a loving glance from
him.
Whenever she did so in vain, she pushed her soft, golden hair back
from her forehead, raised her beautiful head higher, or bit her lips and
gazed silently into her plate.
In reply to Aunt Barbara's questions: "What happened at the council?
Has the money for the new bell been collected? Will Jacob Van Sloten
rent you the meadow?" he made curt, evasive replies.
The steadfast man, who sat so silently with frowning brow among his
family, sometimes attacking the viands on his plate, then leaving them
untouched, did not look like one who yields to idle whims.
All present, even the men and maid-servants, were still devoting
themselves to the food, when the master of the house rose, and pressing
both hands over the back of his head, which was very prominently
developed, exclaimed groaning:
"I can hold out no longer. Do you give thanks, Maria. Go to the
town-hall, Janche, and ask if no messenger has yet arrived."
The man-servant wiped his mouth and instantly obeyed. He was a tall,
broad-shouldered Frieselander, but only reached to his master's
forehead.

Peter Van der Werff, without any form of salutation, turned his back on
his family, opened the door leading into his study, and after crossing
the threshold, closed it with a bang, approached the big oak
writing-desk, on which papers and letters lay piled in heaps, secured by
rough leaden weights, and began to rummage among the newly-arrived
documents. For fifteen minutes he vainly strove to fix the necessary
attention upon his task, then grasped his study-chair to rest his folded
arms on the high, perforated back, adorned with simple carving, and
gazed thoughtfully at the wooden wainscoting of the ceiling. After a
few minutes he pushed the chair aside with his foot, raised his hand to
his mouth, separated his moustache from his thick brown beard, and
went to the window. The small, round, leaden-cased panes, however
brightly they might be polished, permitted only a narrow portion of the
street to be seen, but the burgomaster seemed to have found the object
for which he had been looking. Hastily opening the window, he called
to his servant, who was hurriedly approaching the house:
"Is he in, Janche?"
The Frieselander shook his head, the window again closed, and a few
minutes after the burgomaster seized his hat, which hung, between
some cavalry pistols and a plain, substantial sword, on the only wall of
his room not perfectly bare.
The torturing anxiety that filled his mind, would no longer allow him to
remain in the house.
He would have his horse saddled, and ride to meet the expected
messenger.
Ere leaving the room, he paused a moment lost in thought, then
approached the writing-table to sign some papers intended for the
town-hall; for his return might be delayed till night.
Still standing, he looked over the two sheets he had spread out before
him, and seized the pen. Just at that moment the door of the room
gently opened, and the fresh sand strewn over the white boards creaked
under a light foot. He doubtless heard it, but did not allow himself to be

interrupted.
His wife was now standing close behind him. Four and twenty years his
junior, she seemed like a timid girl, as she raised her arm, yet did not
venture to divert her husband's attention from his business.
She waited quietly till he had signed the first paper, then turned her
pretty head aside, and blushing faintly, exclaimed with downcast eyes:
"It is I, Peter!"
"Very well, my child," he answered curtly, raising