Chapter XVI
It was the afternoon of the day on which Juffrouw Laps sought out Klaasje van der Gracht, and Walter was lying in bed, still weak but no longer delirious. The doctor had ordered rest and quiet. The child counted the flowers in the curtain, and, in his imagination tried to arrange them in some other order. He allowed them to jump over one another, or flow into one another. He saw in them faces, forms, armies, clouds—and all were alive and moving. It was tiresome, but he couldn’t do anything else. If he turned his face toward the wall it was still worse. The hieroglyphic scratches on the wall told him all sorts of things that he didn’t need to know and overwhelmed him with unnecessary impressions. He closed his eyes; but still he found no rest. It seemed to him as if he were being swept away to take part in that entertainment that the night-wind gave the moon. Everything was turning round and round, taking him along. He seized his head in both hands, as if he would stop his imagination by main strength; but it was useless. The curtains, the cords, the wall, the flowers, the dance, the whirlwind that tore Femke away—his efforts to hold her——
The boy burst into tears. He knew that it was all imagination; he knew that he was sick; he knew that chimneys don’t dance, and that girls are not blown to the moon; and yet——
Weeping he called Femke’s name softly, not loud enough to be heard by the others, but loud enough to relieve his own depression.
“What’s that?” he cried suddenly. “Does she answer? Is that imagination, too?”
Actually, Walter heard his name called, and it was Femke’s voice!
“I must know whether I’m dreaming, or not,” he said, and straightened himself up in bed. “That is a red flower, that is a black one, I am Walter, Laurens is a printer’s apprentice—everything is all right; and I’m not dreaming.”
He leaned out of bed and listened again, his mouth and eyes as wide open as he could get them, as if the senses of taste and sight were going to reinforce that of hearing.
“O, God! Femke’s voice! Yes, yes, it is Femke!” He jumped out of bed, ran out the door, and half ran, half fell down the steps.
To return to Femke for a little while. She had expected Walter at the bridge the next day after the story of the sun-worshipers. At first she thought that Walter was waiting till he could borrow from Stoffel the book with the picture showing Aztalpa embracing the two brothers. She wanted to see Walter with the picture; now she would have been satisfied with him without the picture. It couldn’t be the boy’s person, she thought—such a child!—but he did recite so well. Perhaps in the heart of the girl Walter and his recitals had already coalesced.
“Put the clothes in the sun,” cried her mother; and Femke translated that: Sun—Peru—Aztalpa—Kusco—Walter.
“Run those fighters away; they’ll throw dirt on the clothes.”
Femke dreamed: Courageously fighting against the enemies of the country—the noblest tribe of the Incas—Telasco—Walter.
Everything seemed to be calling for Walter; but he did not come.
The first day she was sad; the second, impatient; the third, restless.
“Mother, I’m going to see what’s become of the little boy who was going to write a poem.”
“Do, my child!” said the mother. “Do you think you will find him?”
Femke nodded; but her nod was not convincing. She did not know where Walter lived and was afraid to say so. It took courage to start out to trace the child when she didn’t know where he lived; and this courage she wished to conceal. And why? Just timidity incident to the tender feelings. Sometimes we conceal the good and boast of the bad.
The girl dressed herself as prettily as she could and put all her money in her pocket. It was only a few stivers. She hurried through Ash Gate and inquired where the shop was that lent books. Thus she came directly to the Hartenstraat. She simply retraced the steps of our hero, when he made that first sally with Glorioso.
Less timid than Walter—Femke was older, and had had more experience with men—she asked the gruff fellow in a business-like way for “the book about the countess with the long train or her dress.”
“What? What’s the title?”
“I don’t know,” Femke said. “It’s about a robber—and the Pope’s mentioned in it, too. I am hunting for the boy who read the book. I wanted to ask where he lives—I will pay you for your trouble.”
“Do you think I’m a fool? Am I here to hunt for boys?”
“But, M’neer, I will pay you,” the girl said, and laid the money on the counter.
“Oh, get on! What do I know about your boy?”
Femke got angry now.
“I haven’t done anything, and you can’t run me off like that. No, you can’t. If you don’t want to tell me, you needn’t to. You are an unaccommodating fellow!”
She was going to leave, when it occurred to her to ask, “And won’t you lend me a book, either?”
“Yes, you can get a book. What do you want?”
“That book about the robber and Amalia,” said Femke. She felt now that she was a “customer,” and oh, how proud she had become all at once!
“I don’t know anything about such a book. Do you mean Rinaldo Rinaldini?”
“No. Is there more than one robber book? Just call over the names of them for me.”
This was said with an air of importance that was not without its effect on the shopman. He pulled down the catalogue, and soon he came to “Glorioso.”
“That’s it, that’s it!” cried Femke, delighted.
“But you must deposit a forfeit,” the man said, as he mounted the ladder to get that precious book.
“No, no, I don’t want the book at all. I only want to know where the boy lives who read it. I will pay you gladly,” and she pointed to her money.
“That isn’t necessary,” he said. “I don’t mind accommodating you when you ask me politely.”
He looked in the register and found the name Femke had mentioned, with the address. He showed it to her, and was even going to explain to her the best way to get there; but Femke was already out the door. The fellow had difficulty in overtaking her to return the money she had forgotten on the counter.
When she reached the address given, Femke learned that the Pieterses had moved to a “sweller neighborhood.” It was quite a distance away; but Femke was not deterred by that.
Once at the Pieterses’, she was received by the young ladies with a rough, “What do you want?”
“Oh, Juffrouw, I wanted to ask about Walter.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Femke, Juffrouw, and my mother is a wash-woman. I would like to know if Walter is all right.”
“What have you got to do with Walter?” asked Juffrouw Pieterse, who had heard the commotion and came down.
“Ah, Juffrouw, don’t be angry—I wanted to know; and my mother knows that I’ve come to ask. Walter told me about Telasco, and the girl that was to die—oh, Juffrouw, tell me if he’s sick! I cannot sleep till I know.”
“That’s none of your business. Go, I tell you! I don’t want strange people standing around the door.”
“For mercy’s sake, Juffrouw!” cried the girl, wringing her hands.
“The girl’s crazy. Put her out, Trudie, and slam the door!”
Trudie began to execute the order. Myntje and Pietje got ready to help her; but the child clung to the balustrade and held her ground.
“Throw her out! The impudent thing!”
“Oh, Juffrouw, I’m not impudent. I will go. Just tell me whether Walter is sick. Tell me, and I will go right now. Just tell me if he’s sick—if, if he’s going—to die.”
The poor child began to weep. Anybody else but those Pieterse women would have been touched at the sight. They were too far up the ladder.
Plainer people, or nobler people would have understood Femke. Feeling, sympathy, is like the money in a gambling-place. It doesn’t come to everybody. There wenches and countesses sit side by side; merely respectable people, who sell shoes made in Paris, are not there.
“I won’t go!” cried Femke. “Oh, God! I won’t go! I will know whether that child is sick!”
A door was heard opening above; and Walter came in sight. He tumbled down the steps and fell unconscious at Femke’s feet.
“That boy!” groaned the old lady, while the girls stood as if transfixed. Femke picked Walter up and carried him upstairs. His bed was pointed out to her, and she placed him in it. No one had the courage to run her away when she took a chair by the bedside. If at this moment the rights of the Pieterses and Femke had been voted upon, all the votes would have gone to Femke.
She wept, and stammered “Don’t be angry, Juffrouw; but I couldn’t sleep for thinking of him.”