THE HOME-COMING OF THE HERO

The rebuilding of the cottages was undertaken without delay, and, chiefly to comply with Mynheer Mopius’s injunction, an entertainment was organized by Ursula in honor of her birthday. It was a feast of the usual kind, in the village school-room, with dissolving views, and still more rapidly dissolving cakes. The whole village criticised the various good things provided, especially the patently didactic slides, and went home replete and grumbling. Furthermore, last year’s potato-crop having failed, the village demanded provisions. These also Ursula distributed, especially in the Hemel, as far as the two thousand florins could possibly be made to stretch. Even elasticity has natural limits, and presently dissatisfaction rumbled forth again.

That spring, however, remains memorable in the annals of the Hemel. In April its oldest inhabitant died. He had been breaking up all through the winter, and his gradual decline had been watched by every man, woman, and child in the place. For, firstly, he was the only one among them who could be described as “pretty well off;” secondly, he was a childish bachelor; and, thirdly, every household in the hamlet laid claim to some form of connection with “Uncle Methuselah,” as they called him, though nobody wished him that patriarch’s tale of years.

Uncle Methuselah having died intestate on the seventh day of April, every able-bodied adult in the Hemel, not to mention the children, stood outside Notary Noks’s little office-door on the morning of the eighth. There was much jostling and jesting, also some affectation of sorrow by those who considered that laughs should be taken in disproof of relationship.

The raggedest of the ragged troop, fat Vrouw Punter, had actually concealed an onion under her tattered shawl. Her face was so resolutely jovial that she fancied the lachrymose vegetable might prove useful in her interview with the man of law; for she had heard, and devoutly believed, that if you but held such a thing in your hand, at an emergency, your eyes were certain to overflow. Most of the others poured forth rivers ad libitum, scorning artificial assistance.

But Notary Noks put a stop to that. “Come up in succession,” he said, “and those who feel bad take a turn outside.”

A list was made out of some seventy claimants, and then a period of darkest anxiety and suspicion began for the Hemel. Every day, as it slowly wore itself out, deepened the agonizing conviction that “the judges” were cutting their slices off the communal cake. “Humpy Jack,” who could fluently read words of three syllables, gave voice to the general sentiment. “A legacy in the lawyers’ hands,” he said, “is just like a lump of ice on a red-hot stove.”

Pessimists shook their heads and expressed an opinion that “nobody would get nothing.”

In a fortnight the excitement reached fever-heat. Meanwhile, numerous members of the community regularly visited—and called upon—Ursula.

At last, on a beautiful spring day, full of promise and hope, all the heirs, or their legal representatives, obeyed a summons to fetch each man his share. Not a soul but was amazed by the vagaries of “the judges,” and annoyed by their rapacity. The people who received a couple of hundred florins were almost as angry as those who stared down on half a dozen silver pieces in a grimy palm. Yet surely the queer fractions and subdivisions should have convinced the unconvincible.

But after the return of the anxiously expected gold-seekers, a general appeasement settled upon the whole clan. Then followed a brief period of frizzling and frying, of dancing and shouting, and the children’s cheeks were shiny and the parents’ breath was strong. And the voices of the singer and the swearer were abundantly heard in the land. Then the flame burned low, like a dying “Catherine-wheel,” and fell away. Seven days after the visit to “the judges” not a penny of Uncle Methuselah’s inheritance was left in the Hemel.

On the eighth day several woe-begone faces appeared at the kitchen entrance of the Horst. Not one of these faces, according to information freely vouchsafed, belonged to “a cousin” of the patriarch.

Horstwyk, as always, pulled up its collective nose. “Can anything good come out of the Hemel?” it asked. Besides, Horstwyk had other matters to interest it. Scandal about Ursula had become more general than ever, and to this was soon added the all-engrossing topic of “the Baron’s” return. He came back as soon as the chill Dutch summer could feebly be counted on to cherish this hero-son of the soil; he came back, enfolded in wraps and coverings, with the imprint of wearying pain on his white but unchangeably handsome face.

“Your rooms are quite ready at the Manor-house,” said Ursula, having gone with the Dowager to greet him on his arrival in Amsterdam. The Dowager could only sit silent with her hand in his; it had been her intention to ask him if really he had been wounded, but she had got sufficient answer before the question could be put.

“Thank you,” said Gerard, “I am going to stay a few days with the Trossarts, and I shall be glad to come and see you from Drum. I am thinking of settling down for the present at the Hague.”

Ursula bit her under-lip. The Dowager’s pale eyes flashed fire. “For the present.” Of course. The best legal advice, she supposed, could be obtained at the Hague.

“Gerard,” she said, and her eyes grew soft again as she filled them with his presence, “what is the use of letters that only tell half the truth?”

“It is a fair average,” he answered, gayly. “Why, even before the introduction of the penny-post man had discovered that the object of speech is to dissemble. A dumb man with expressive eyes would tell all his secrets. And there has been since the creation of the world no greater multiplier of falsehood than the penny-post.”

“A man who daren’t answer straight is bound to take refuge in nonsense,” replied the Dowager, feeling quite young and clever again. “I wasn’t speaking of the penny-post. What you say there is so like your father, Gerard. Don’t you remember how he used to declare that the breeding of centuries, after having come triumphant out of the French Revolution, had been killed in fifty years’ time by the railway and the penny-post? I have got that down in the Memoir. You remind me so much of your father, Gerard. I must show you what I have written since you went away.”

And then they began talking of many tender memories, and Ursula left them alone.

Gerard had resolved from the first to avoid anything that could have the appearance of a home-coming to Horstwyk. This sentiment Ursula, of course, understood. But there are no more powerless creatures in the world than its rulers, big or little. It was a case of the driver driven. For the population of the whole neighborhood made up its heavy mind to do honor to “the Hero,” as everybody seemed agreed to call him. It was an excellent opportunity of protesting against Ursula’s government, of glorifying the ancien rÉgime, and of saluting the national flag; also it gave a great many nonentities a notable chance of displaying their importance: there would be speeches, and favors, and, best of all, wide-spread good cheer. Once a committee had been formed and subscriptions gathered, both Gerard and Ursula saw that resistance would be vain. So they gave in, separately and simultaneously, each with the best possible grace, and the Lady of the Manor promised flowers and a collation, and invited the gentry for several miles round. Also she drove with the Dowager to inspect the triumphal arches in course of erection at the distant limit of the Commune, on Horstwyk village square, at the Manor-house gates.

The appointed day dawned white with early heat, rippling over as the sun rose higher into the color-glories of triumphant June. The splendor of the cloudless morning lay almost like an oppression upon the drowsy pastures and the dusty roads. The washed and smartened crowds by the park gates and near the church shone visibly with heat and happiness. As always at the beginning of every public holiday, “the temper of the crowd was excellent:” the local reporter of the Drum Gazette remembered that stereotyped phrase without requiring to make a note of it.

The Manor-house carriage with Ursula inside met the train at the market-town station, and, by an irony of fate, she had to drive along the highway seated next to her brother-in-law. It was still stranger, perhaps, that this should be the single occasion on which she appeared since her widowhood, before all the country-side, in the rÔle of Lady of the Manor. The “county families”—her cousins by marriage—gathered around her with abundance of malevolent curiosity.

Gerard was very silent and reserved; she saw how distasteful the whole ceremony was to him. He still looked ill, in dark clothing, with his military cross on his breast.

At the first triumphal arch, where a white stone marked the extreme limit of Horstwyk, the simple reception commenced. It had been distinctly arranged that only the returning soldier was to be honored as such. The Burgomaster’s welcoming speech, therefore, was all glory and gunpowder, and could hurt no one, not even Ursula, though she might have drawn her own conclusions, had that been necessary, from the silence which had attended her solitary drive to the station. Loud cries of “Long live the Baron!” now resounded on all sides; they broke out afresh as the carriage halted by the church, where the school-children sang a couple of patriotic anthems, and the DominÉ, wearing his Cross of the Legion of Honor, held a second discourse. The village band having played a military march, the carriage drove off to the Horst. It was unattended, a sore point with the tenantry, whose proposal to get up a mounted guard of honor had been met by Gerard’s unhesitating rebuff.

Everybody he cared about (and a good many other people) had assembled to welcome him on the Manor-house lawn. The Van Trossarts were there, and the Van Troyens; and Helena, a fond though fitful mother, had brought her baby girl. A big luncheon was served in the house for the guests, and another outside for the members of the committee and the numerous village notables. Ursula sat calculating the cost all through her father’s toast, which was necessarily rather a repetition of his speech, a glorification of bravery, secular and religious. Nobody could doubt that Gerard was utterly miserable.

Nor could any one ignore the delight of the Dowager. She stood by her son’s side, bowed yet beaming, all through the sweltry afternoon. It was her feast-day. She drank in with eagerly upturned countenance the unceasing flow of banal compliments, seeming to derive some personal satisfaction from the clumsy praises of the peasantry. For, after luncheon, while the children’s sports were in progress, the returned warrior endured a congratulatory levee. Farmer after farmer came up, red-hot with clumsy good feeling; farmer after farmer remarked:

“Now, Jonker, you’ve kept up the honor of Horstwyk, say.”

Gerard, rousing himself, found a kind word of recognition and interest for each. Ursula, as she watched him from afar, saw on the altered features the old smile.

Once she drew near to him suddenly. “How much you must have suffered!” she said. “I had no idea—I—”

He looked at her gravely.

“Not as much as you,” he answered. “I would not have exchanged my fight for yours.”

“Gerard, you do not mean that,” she said, quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Now that you see the old place again, after all these months, you are glad it is still there, still—ours. You would not willingly now have lost a rood of it. Say so—say so, now.”

Her voice grew desperately pleading.

Gerard waited long before he answered. “I am glad it is yours,” he said at last, “as you seem to care. I should not care for it to be mine.”

She sprang back as if he had stung her. For the rest of the time she remained with Theodore, trying to believe that she did not observe the “county people’s” impertinences. She felt Helena’s eyes upon her constantly, and was surprised by their benignity. That woman must be a worse woman than Helena Van Troyen who can receive, immutable, a little child from God.

All through the sultry splendor of that long-drawn summer day the peasantry enjoyed themselves in their own peculiar manner. Towards five o’clock a slate-colored bank of cloud began slowly to border the far horizon, as if rising to meet the yet lofty sun. One carriage after another emerged from the stables, and the local grandees drove away. Then the people gathered for a final cheer, before melting in groups towards their respective neighborhoods to finish the evening, many of them, alas, in drink.

“Hurrah,” cried the Burgomaster, “for the hero of Acheen! Hurrah!”

“And now,” said Gerard’s clear tones in the ensuing silence, “a cheer for the giver of this whole entertainment, the Lady of the Manor! Hurrah!”

It was a mistake, but Gerard knew nothing of Ursula’s unpopularity. His chivalrous impulse met with but feeble response. A strident voice—one of those voices you hear above the crowd—even cried out, though hesitatingly, “Down with all thieves!” A murmur of approbation from the immediate surrounders saluted the words. Ursula overheard them, and, looking up, saw a pair of villanous eyes fixed evilly on hers. “Who is that man? Do you know?” she said, turning to Theodore.

“That man,” he answered, with studied carelessness. “Oh, nobody. A writer that the notary has lately taken on. His name is Skiff.”

“Stay to dinner,” said Ursula. “We shall be quite a small party. Immediately afterwards Gerard goes back to Drum with the Van Trossarts. I want you to see them to the station.”

“Very well. There is a thunder-storm coming up.”

“Is there? I don’t mind thunder-storms. But this one is several hours off. You will be able to get back in time.”

It was about ten o’clock. The great curtain of deepening blue had crept steadily upward, sweeping its broad rim like a mass of cotton-wool across sun and sky, and gradually mingling with night in one unbroken heaviness. The black weight now lay low on the thick, expectant air. The summer evening was pitchy dark and threatening.

Inside the Manor-house everything was once more quiet, with the numbness that follows on a long day’s fatigue. A light glimmered here and there in the big, dim building. In the basement the servants were busy washing up. From time to time a distant yell of drunken merrymaking or sheer animal excitement came faintly ringing through the solemn denseness of the trees.

Ursula sat alone in her room, thinking of many things, especially of Gerard’s reply to her question regarding the Horst. On her side that question had assumed the importance of a supreme appeal. How coldly he had pushed it aside!

“I know not what to do,” she reflected. “I cannot advance or retreat. Merciful Heaven, how he has suffered! And the suffering has taught him nothing.”

The noise from the village beat vaguely against her ear. It was growing louder, coming nearer, but she did not remark it. She looked up as from a trance, when Hephzibah broke, unannounced, into the room.

“Mevrouw, they are coming!” shrieked the waiting-woman, her white face still whiter from terror. “Save yourself! Escape by the terrace!”

“Silence! Keep calm,” answered Ursula, long ago accustomed to recognize the poor creature’s insanity. “If you can calm yourself, tell me what is wrong.”

“There’s no time,” burst out Hephzibah, “for calmness. They are coming—the people, up the avenue! They swear they will murder you, or burn down the castle! Save yourself! Save yourself! Down by the stables.”

Ursula, hearkening, distinguished indeed the fierce roar of an approaching mob.

“Hush!” she said, white to the lips. “Go up-stairs to Freule Louisa. Tell her to reassure the Baroness. Nothing will happen—do you hear me?—if you all keep calm.” She spoke slowly and impressively. “But if there is to be shrieking and screaming, I cannot answer for the consequences.”

Then, brushing past the momentarily paralyzed servant, she went out into the entrance hall. Its white pillars shone dimly in the insufficient lamplight, half hidden behind gay patches of flowers. The house had not been decorated for the occasion, but the stands had been refilled and freshened up, and a floral “Hail to the Hero!” of the head-gardener’s fabrication, still hung unfaded over the great dining-room door.

The loud menace of the swiftly approaching danger rolled up with increasing distinctness under the lowering heavens. Ursula could plainly distinguish enthusiasm for the rightful Van Helmont and denunciation of the usurper. “After all, they are right,” she thought, bitterly; “they little know how right.” Somehow the reflection seemed to bring her assurance. She now remembered, without bitterness, all the manifold charities which the usurper, unlike the rightful lords, had constantly dispensed, as bread from her own mouth, to both deserving and undeserving poor.

She went out on to the wide steps and stood waiting; the hot air struck her pallid face, and the clouds seemed to sink yet lower.

In another moment the cries all around her struck a yet crueler blow. A dark mass, yelling and drunken, was surging vaguely across the blackness of the lawn—the lowest rabble of the purlieus of Horstwyk, and all the aristocracy of the Hemel.

“Down with the usurper!” “Down with the tyrant!” “We won’t have any thieves in Horstwyk!” “Long live the hero of Acheen!” “Down with the parson’s daughter!” And, cruelest of all, “Down with the light o’ love!”

For one instant, as those mad words reached her, Ursula shrank back, and a torrent of crimson swept over her cheeks. Juffers, the constable, had supplemented Adeline’s stories, telling how, even in her early widowhood, Mevrouw had despised all decorum.

At sight of the single light-robed figure standing there in the dull radiance from the hall, the shrieking, struggling conglomeration swerved back. There came a lull; then the wild shouts went up anew.

“As no Helmont’s to have it, let’s burn down the house!” cried a dominating twang, which Ursula recognized. A yell of approval swelled high around the words. The logic of this tribute to the family immediately enchanted every one; and all the half-grown boys and raw youths in the horde howled with delight at the prospect of so grand a conflagration. The tumult for some time, however, rendered action of any kind impossible. Then followed the inevitable ebb.

“There is no necessity for burning anything,” said Ursula, in far-reaching tones; “the house is full of defenceless women. I am here. What do you want?”

Another roar answered her, and, with re-echoing cries of “Burn it!” the mob swayed forward to the steps.

Suddenly the fierce note of fury changed to a shrill surprise. Ursula felt a hand upon her arm. Removing her eyes for the first time from the turmoil in front of her, she saw the little Dowager standing by her side.

“Go in, mamma—go in,” she whispered, hurriedly. But the little Dowager did not remove the hand.

“Hurrah for the old Baroness?” screamed a drink-sodden voice. The response was lost in an uproar of terror, as the darkness momentarily vanished, and the whole scene—the massive building, the soaring beeches, the upturned distorted faces, the two figures on the threshold—all stood out white for one brilliant instant before the opening heavens crashed down the full weight of their pent-up derision in torrents of mingling rain and thunder on the wasps’ nest beneath them which men call the world.

Mechanically the two women fell back under shelter. The rush of water poured past them like a falling curtain amid the tumult of the elements. The startled and blinded crowd, as flash followed flash, sought an insecure refuge under the great trees of the park, still restrained by that pair of locked and steadfast women from roughly invading “the House.” The whole place was wrapped as in a whirlpool of contending fire and water. Vaguely the half-sobered drunkard realized that the young Baroness stood inviolable, girdled by God.

House and park were black and still in a widespread drip and shine of water, when Theodore van Helmont, drenched to the skin, sprang from his flecked and foaming steed and rang softly at a side-door. He ran to the corridor, where Ursula met him, lamp in hand.

“That I should have been too late!” he gasped. “O God! Forgive me, Ursula, that I should have been too late!” The tears sprang forward as he looked at her, and rained down his cheeks.

“Don’t,” she said. “You hurt me.” She had never seen a man shed tears before. “Of course you were too late. How could you help it?”

He mastered himself with an effort. “How pale you are!” he said.

“Well, of course, it is hardly a pleasant experience. It was my own fault for encouraging conviviality. It is over now, Theodore. Be comforted; you could have done nothing had you been here.”

“I could at least have died first,” he muttered. And he went away without saying good-night.

When Hephzibah had carried the alarm to Freule Louisa, the latter had run screaming to the Dowager.

“And where is Ursula?” the old lady had asked, gasping and trembling.

“Ursula has gone out to meet them, like the mad creature she is. Dear Heaven, we shall all be murdered! Come away with me, CÉcile—come away! We can get out at the back and take refuge at the gardener’s. Come immediately—come away!”

The Dowager rose, tottering, from her easy-chair.

“I am going to Ursula,” she said.

“To Ursula? Oh, mercy! CÉcile, have you turned crazy, too? Let her get herself killed if she wants to; what business is it of yours? Oh, Heaven, I’m so frightened, I daren’t stay a second longer. Come with me! You surely don’t care so remarkably for Ursula?”

“That may be,” replied the Dowager, with one foot already on the stair; “but I am going to her now.”