“MRS. GERARD”

Ever since Otto’s sudden death the Freule Louisa had felt stirred to practical philanthropy. Something about “redeeming the time” had got wedged in one of her ears. With her own fair hand she had concocted during Ursula’s long illness uneatable messes for the invalid, and, mindful of the poor thing’s former overtures to herself, she had very nearly brought on a recurrence of delirium by insisting on reading Carlyle’s French Revolution at the bedside. Routed by the doctor, she had extended her uncertain assistance to the village; but her efforts were much hampered by the steadfast resolution that neither personally, nor through the medium of her maid, would she incur any risk of infection. When the turnpike-woman’s little boy went up to the Manor-house for a promised bottle of wine the Freule rolled it across to him, her smelling-bottle held tight to her nostrils, over the broad slab before the open door. And somehow the little boy was awkward or frightened, and the bottle rolled away down the steps in crimson splashes and a puddle. All the village heard the story with a burst of derisive reproach. “Which seeing it was after confinement,” said the bottle-nosed turnpike-man, “a thing about which the Freule couldn’t be expected to know.”

“You can never be quite sure with these people, Hephzibah,” explained Freule Louisa, anxiously. “There is always a possibility of your catching something they haven’t got.”

“What you catch soonest is what you can’t catch afterwards,” replied Hephzibah, who meant fleas. Personally, the handmaid had a weakness for domiciliary visits, which afforded her an agreeable opportunity of telling the people of her own class—her inferiors, as she called them—how entirely they themselves were to blame for any misfortunes they might happen to have had.

On the gusty day which brought Gerard’s letter the Freule, accompanied by her faithful attendant, had departed to the Parsonage. Every Wednesday afternoon through the silent winter months the “ladies” of the village met in Josine’s drawing-room, and sewed innumerable nondescript garments for tropical converts from nudity to the inspiring strains of long-drawn letters monotonous with sickness and privation. Of this little Horstwyk Society the Freule from the Manor-house was Honorary President. It had taken to itself the appellation “Tryphena, Rom. xvi. 12,” and had gloriously fought and conquered the opposition “Tryphosa” which the doctor’s wife had rashly started—without Honorary President, but with a mission-field that could boast two genuine murders. Some of the Tryphena people rather regretted the annihilation of Tryphosa. It had formed such a fruitful theme when the missionary letters gave out.

“My dear Josine, I have got a most interesting report,” said the Freule, eagerly, taking off her heavy boots in the little Parsonage passage. The President and Secretary hated each other like poison. “The man at Palempilibang has lost two more children from dysentery—isn’t it dreadful?—and his wife has been so very bad they will have to take her up to a hill station for change of air.”

“I cannot understand it,” argued Josine, as they advanced to join the others; “I packed plenty of medicine in the box we sent out last Christmas. I wrote to Leipsic on purpose so as to make sure it should be genuine. And with me, when I have symptoms, Sympathetico—”

“My dear, I should not imagine it of any use in actual disease,” replied the Freule, hurriedly taking refuge from her own temerity in the bosom of “Tryphena.”

“Ladies, I have a most interesting report for this day’s meeting,” she began, with the common eagerness to promulgate calamity. “I shall not spoil it by picking out the best bits beforehand, but I must just tell you, because you will be so sorry to hear it, that Jobson, of Palempilibang, has lost two of his remaining seven children from dysentery, and his wife is so exceedingly weak the doctor says she cannot remain at the station. Isn’t it very, very sad? Ah, Juffrouw Pink, I am glad to see your cold is better.”

All the ladies looked at each other, and nodded sympathetically. The Freule’s news was quite in keeping with the ancient order of things. “Out yonder” was very far away, and people always died there. When they died you had a vague conception that you were getting your money’s worth. Juffrouw Pink, the very fat wife of a church-warden, and a recent member, sat helplessly entangling the fateful disease, in her woolly mind, with the crime of Non-conformity. Mevrouw Noks, the notary’s angular consort, laid down the little garment she had been engaged on.

“So that will no longer be necessary,” she said, deliberately. Josine, who liked to be noticeably sentimental, murmured, “Fie!”

Meanwhile, Hephzibah, in the kitchen, was overawing the little Parsonage maid. But the thing was easy, soon effected, oft repeated, and she yearned for bolder game. Presently the drawing-room bell rang, and Hephzibah rose, aware that her weekly deliverance was come.

Every Wednesday afternoon the Freule Louisa would check the Secretary’s report-droning to remark, “My dear secretary, I am sure you will excuse me, but might I ring just one moment for my maid?” Somebody would, of course, hasten to comply with the noble President’s request—the interruption was far from unwelcome to the gossip-loving community—and the Freule Louisa would compliment herself on again having invented a pretext to make sure of Hephzibah’s obedience to orders. Practically, the pretexts were but three: a handkerchief from the winter mantle, a forgotten letter for the post, and the drying of the Freule’s boots. And Hephzibah, having made her cross-grained appearance, immediately sallied out on errands of her own. For the Freule never rang twice—lest she should make the discovery she dreaded.

Hephzibah was not afraid of dirt or disease. Both she knew to be the outcome of human wickedness, and with human wickedness Hephzibah Botster had little to do. She feared only one thing in this world, or the other world, the Intangible—consolidated and incorporated for her in a great overshadowing conception—the Devil. Hephzibah believed overwhelmingly in the Devil. Her existence was full of him. And therefore, strong-minded saint though she was, she did not like to find herself alone in the dark.

As a rule, she spent her Wednesday afternoons with Klomp, the lazy proprietor of the tumble-down cottage in Horstwyk wood. Klomp was what she chose to call “a sort of a distant connection of hers,” he being disreputable, and a cousin-german. This disreputable man she had, however, made up her mind to marry, for her chances were infinitesimal, and she felt that the tidying him up would be a glory and a joy.

As she now went zigzagging along the road, crooked in feature and movement, through the sloppy haze of dull-brown bareness, she came across a shy urchin who was gathering forbidden firewood. Him she immediately accosted, like the Bumble she was.

“Do you know, you boy, who comes for children that steal?”

“Jesus,” stammered the frightened culprit, giving the invariable answer of all Dutch children to any question that savors of the Sunday-school.

“The Devil! The Devil! The Devil!” reiterated Hephzibah, with impressive vociferation. “Do you understand me? The Devil.” She attempted, ignoring physical impossibilities, to fix both her eyes in one soul-searching stare. But the little boy lifted his own pale-blue orbs in saucer-sized reproach.

“It’s very wrong to swear,” he said, gravely.

So Hephzibah continued her way, for “Answer not a fool,” she reflected, “according to his folly.” She saw, through the gaunt glitter of the trees, Klomp’s half-detached shutters hanging forlorn. She wondered who had opened them on this usually deserted side. Certainly not Klomp. She smiled grimly. She would put things to rights, as was her custom, and scold him.

She heard voices inside the house, an unknown woman’s voice, and laughter—actually laughter from Klomp, whose utmost exertion in her presence hardly attained to a smile. She pushed open the door and entered, indignant. Some chipped crockery was spread over the crippled table, and behind an odorous paraffine-stove and coffee-pot sat a frowzy female of spurious pretensions to elegance—a female with whom Hephzibah was not acquainted, but whose name was Adeline Skiff. The virtuous Abigail immediately wrote down the stranger “a bad lot,” and less virtue would have sufficed thus correctly to apprise her.

“Company! Dearie me!” cried Hephzibah, in a whole gamut of spinsterly suspicion. “And where, pray, are Pietje and Mietje, John?”

Klomp yawned.

“Wednesday, is it?” he said. “So much the worse.” After which uncourteous allusion he subsided.

“Let me introduce myself to the lady,” interposed Adeline, all mince and simper. “I am a cousin of Mynheer Klomp’s, and I have come to stay with him for a week or two.”

“Cousin!” repeated Hephzibah, in a tone of flat denial. She stalked to the table, and sat down square. “Now, John, I’m a distant connection of yours, and I know all about your family. And what cousin may you be, mum, pray, and on which side?”

“Oh, I never can remember those genesises!” cried Adeline, with a charming laugh, as she hastened to arrange her fringe.

“Dirty hands!” reflected Hephzibah.

“My name is Botster,” she said, aloud, “and one thing I know for certain, madame, that you never were a cousin of mine.”Adeline looked surprised at this open aggression; but Adeline had never liked disagreeables of any kind.

“Have some coffee?” she asked. “There is a little—a little taste from the coating of the coffee-pot, whatever it may be, that gives quite a peculiar flavor, as I was just telling Klomp.”

She laughed again, and the sluggard smiled contentedly.

“Oh, nobody ever rinses it out,” he said. “I boiled some ratsbane in it the other day.”

Adeline shrieked.

“Of course, you are a stickler for neatness, Juffrouw—Juffrouw?” cried Hephzibah, furiously, letting one of her eyes travel down the soiled ribbons of the visitor’s tawdry dress. “I like people to be tidy, not like you, Cousin John. Cleanliness is a great virtue, Juffrouw. Perhaps you know it is placed next to godliness.”

“Yes, I see it is,” replied Adeline, with a gesture of sudden malice—“sitting side by side.”

To such levity Hephzibah could allow no recognition. She was burning to find out the intruder’s name, and, after some futile strategy, which deepened the mystery, she boldly demanded it.

“Why, Klomp,” replied Adeline—“Klomp, of course. Isn’t it, Cousin John?” She winked at Hephzibah’s relation impudently.

“I don’t believe it,” said Hephzibah.

“Well, if it isn’t, I’ll make it so. Some day, perhaps, I’ll tell you more, and some day, perhaps, I sha’n’t. If you were going to have a new white dress, what color would you have it trimmed?”

“If I, or any other decent person of our class, were going to have a white dress, it would be a night-dress,” retorted Hephzibah, “and she wouldn’t have it trimmed at all.”

At this Adeline giggled and Hephzibah glared.

“Any one can see,” said Juffrouw Skiff, “that you’re a thrifty body and don’t waste your money on personal adornment. Married, I dare say, eh?—ah?—and a large family to look after.”

Both Klomp and Adeline roared.

“I’m maid at the Manor-house,” said honest Hephzibah, proudly; “own maid to the Freule van Borck.”

“You don’t say so!” Adeline’s manner had grown suddenly serious. “Now that’s a remarkable coincidence. I’m very much interested in your Manor-house, Juffrouw Potster. I know your people.”

“Really?” replied Hephzibah, politely. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of our dinners. Did you come alone, or did you bring your cousin Klomp?”

This time Adeline flushed scarlet, but she was resolved to avoid a quarrel with a servant from the Horst. Deserted, for the time at least, by her husband, she had heard of Ursula’s great good-fortune, and had made up her mind to come and find out some means of extorting money from the Helmonts. Her plan of campaign was as yet undetermined; meanwhile she had taken the cheapest of lodgings with Klomp, who was, of course, in no wise a relation. “It will look better to say we are connected,” she had suggested, intent upon “keeping dark” at first. “You can have the room for ninepence,” had been Klomp’s only reply. “No attendance, mind.”

She now got up and walked to the window, with a glance at her reflection against the greasy pane. “There are your girls, Klomp,” she said, “with the child. The poor darling can never have enough of that dear little porker. Hear him shriek with delight. Are you fond of children, Juffrouw Boster?”

Klomp sauntered out to his affectionate Pietje and Mietje, now strapping young women, both. Immediately Hephzibah came up behind the smiling stranger by the open door. She had not much time to lose.

“Look here, you!” she said, hoarsely. “What have you come here for? After no good, I’ll be bound. But you leave this man, mind you. Cousin or no cousin, he’s my man, not yours.” She was desperate at the thought of her lessening only chance.

The other turned tauntingly in the doorway.

“Your man?” she repeated. “What d’ye mean? Can’t you take a joke, you fool? You don’t imagine, do you, that I want to marry Klomp?”

Hephzibah shivered with horror and spite. Visions of King Solomon’s impudent-faced fair ones rose up before her. “Jezebel,” she said, inconsistently, but with commendable candor.

“Tut, tut!” answered Adeline, looking away. “Your dress is a shocking bad fit. I’ll alter it for you. I had no idea you came here courting, Juffrouw Boster—and in such a dress as that!”

Hephzibah longed to strike the woman, but she only stupidly repeated, “What did you come for?” amid the laughter and cries of the others close by. Then suddenly she stamped her foot.

“Go away, or I’ll make you.”

“You!” retorted Adeline, fairly roused. “What next, you Poster? Know that you are speaking to your betters. Imagine the insolence of it! I and Klomp! I! The insolence of it! Klomp and you; yes, that is another matter. Here, Baby! Baby!” A sudden resolve seemed to seize upon her. Her little boy of some three or four raw summers came unwillingly towards the house, diverted from his course by continual grabs at the porker’s wispy tail. “Do you see this child?” asked Adeline, catching hold of a faded blue mantle, and turning up a pretty though mealy little face. “This is my child, my only one.” She had shrewdly left the infant at Drum.

Hephzibah started, and vainly pretended to have slipped. “Well?” she said.

“His name is Gerard.”

Slowly the faithful servant lifted her crossed eyes to the other’s better-favored face. “Hussy!” she said, deliberately, with all an honest woman’s slow pressure on the term.

Adeline burned with the immediate umbrage of a girl who feels her ears boxed. At a leap she resolved to rejoice in the rÔle which had long allured her.

“Menial,” she said, loftily, “know your place. You are speaking to Mevrouw van Helmont.”

“Well,” reflected Hephzibah, pausing for breath on her hurried walk back to the Parsonage, “I am glad that I told her she was a liar. Still—”

Queer stories about the Jonker Gerard had been rife in the servants’ hall. The domestics of the Trossart household had added their occasional items. It was pretty well known that Helena would have married her cousin but for some sudden impediment. Judging by appearances and gossip, there was nothing absolutely improbable in Adeline’s story. In fact, Adeline very nearly believed it herself. Hephzibah wished that vigorous denial could prove it untrue.

And then the child! Hephzibah screwed her wrinkled face up till it looked like an enormous spider. That woman Lady of the Manor! That woman! Hephzibah shook her head as she hurried along. “Who is thine handmaid,” she said, aloud, “that she should do this thing?”

She was late, and she found the Freule waiting, shawled and gaitered and exceedingly nervous, in the dim drawing-room, amid driblets of unwilling conversation with Juffrouw Josine. Louisa looked vehement reproaches, and longed for courage to speak them; but Hephzibah was too violently excited by her afternoon’s adventure to notice such trifles as these. The pair marched off through the damp twilight.

“Red Riding-hood and the Wolf,” said Josine.

“Hephzibah,” began the Freule presently, in a trembling voice, “I wish you would walk on the other side of the road. One can’t tell where you may have been.”

Hephzibah obeyed with silent protest.

“Hephzibah,” hazarded the Freule a few minutes later, unable to bear any longer the gray atmosphere of disapproval, “what is this terrible secret you said you would tell me the other day? You have alluded to it several times lately, and always declared you dared not mention it in the house. Well, we are alone now, on the road.”

“Oh, it’s of no account,” muttered Hephzibah. “And I couldn’t shout it across, besides,” she added, in a lower key.

“Well, come a little nearer, if you like, but not nearer, mind you, than the middle.”

“It’s nothing,” said the maid, gruffly.

“Oh, but it is. Coming out, you told me it was most important. Now, Hephzibah, you are in a bad temper because your conscience reproves you.”

“My conscience!” exclaimed the immaculate maid. “My conscience reproves me a hundred times a day!”

“So much the better. Then tell me your secret.”

A struggle was going on in the handmaid’s bosom. She prolonged it for some distance, perhaps unnecessarily; but then she rather enjoyed a moral struggle. At last she said, in a dull, dissembling voice:

“I’m sure now, Freule, that Anne Mary steals cook’s perquisites. I can prove it.”

“Pooh! Is that all?” cried the disappointed Freule. “You’ve talked about that before, and I don’t care a brass farthing, Hephzibah. A nice secret to make secrets of! Go along to the other side of the road—do!”

Hephzibah obeyed, looking very wise.