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    The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02
    The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02
    The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02
    Ebook101 pages1 hour

    The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02

    By Georg Ebers and Mary J. Safford

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 25, 2013
    The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02
    Author

    Georg Ebers

    Georg Moritz Ebers (Berlin, March 1, 1837 – Tutzing, Bavaria, August 7, 1898), German Egyptologist and novelist, discovered the Egyptian medical papyrus, of ca. 1550 BCE, named for him (see Ebers Papyrus) at Luxor (Thebes) in the winter of 1873–74. Now in the Library of the University of Leipzig, the Ebers Papyrus is among the most important ancient Egyptian medical papyri. It is one of two of the oldest preserved medical documents anywhere—the other being the Edwin Smith Papyrus (ca. 1600 BCE).Ebers early conceived the idea of popularising Egyptian lore by means of historical romances. Many of his books have been translated into English. For his life, see his "The Story of My Life" — "Die Geschichte meines Lebens". (Wikipedia)

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      Book preview

      The Burgomaster's Wife — Volume 02 - Georg Ebers

      The Project Gutenberg EBook The Burgomaster's Wife, by Georg Ebers, v2 #140 in our series by Georg Ebers

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      **Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

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      Title: The Burgomaster's Wife, Volume 2.

      Author: Georg Ebers

      Release Date: April, 2004 [EBook #5579] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on August 12, 2002]

      Edition: 10

      Language: English

      *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BURGOMASTER'S WIFE, BY EBERS, V2 ***

      This eBook was produced by David Widger

      [NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an entire meal of them. D.W.]

      THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE

      By Georg Ebers

      Volume 2.

      CHAPTER VII.

      A second and third rainy day followed the first one. White mists and grey fog hung over the meadows. The cold, damp north-west wind drove heavy clouds together and darkened the sky. Rivulets dashed into the streets from the gutters on the steep roofs of Leyden; the water in the canals and ditches grew turbid and rose towards the edges of the banks. Dripping, freezing men and women hurried past each other without any form of greeting, while the pair of storks pressed closer to each other in their nest, and thought of the warm south, lamenting their premature return to the cold, damp, Netherland plain.

      In thoughtful minds the dread of what must inevitably come was increasing. The rain made anxiety grow as rapidly in the hearts of many citizens, as the young blades of grain in the fields. Conversations, that sounded anything but hopeful, took place in many tap-rooms—in others men were even heard declaring resistance folly, or loudly demanding the desertion of the cause of the Prince of Orange and liberty.

      Whoever in these days desired to see a happy face in Leyden might have searched long in vain, and would probably have least expected to find it in the house of Burgomaster Van der Werff.

      Three days had now elapsed since Peter's departure, nay the fourth was drawing towards noon, yet the burgomaster had not returned, and no message, no word of explanation, had reached his family.

      Maria had put on her light-blue cloth dress with Mechlin lace in the square neck, for her husband particularly liked to see her in this gown and he must surely return to-day.

      The spray of yellow wall-flowers on her breast had been cut from the blooming plant in the window of her room, and Barbara had helped arrange her thick hair.

      It lacked only an hour of noon, when the young wife's delicate, slender figure, carrying a white duster in her hand, entered the burgomaster's study. Here she stationed herself at the window, from which the pouring rain streamed in numerous crooked serpentine lines, pressed her forehead against the panes, and gazed down into the quiet street.

      The water was standing between the smooth red tiles of the pavement. A porter clattered by in heavy wooden shoes, a maid-servant, with a shawl wrapped around her head, hurried swiftly past, a shoemaker's boy, with a pair of boots hanging on his back, jumped from puddle to puddle, carefully avoiding the dry places;—no horseman appeared.

      It was almost unnaturally quiet in the house and street; she heard nothing except the plashing of the rain. Maria could not expect her husband until the beat of horses' hoofs was audible; she was not even gazing into the distance—only dreamily watching the street and the ceaseless rain.

      The room had been thoughtfully heated for the drenched man, whose return was expected, but Maria felt the cold air through the chinks in the windows. She shivered, and as she turned back into the dusky room, it seemed as if this twilight atmosphere must always remain, as if no more bright days could ever come.

      Minutes passed before she remembered for what purpose she had entered the room and began to pass the dusting-cloth over the writing-table, the piles of papers, and the rest of the contents of the apartment. At last she approached the pistols, which Peter had not taken with him on his journey.

      The portrait of her husband's first wife hung above the weapons and sadly needed dusting, for until now Maria had always shrunk from touching it.

      To-day she summoned up her courage, stood opposite to it, and gazed steadily at the youthful features of the woman, with whom Peter had been happy. She felt spellbound by the brown eyes that gazed at her from the pleasant face.

      Yes, the woman up there looked happy, almost insolently happy. How much more had Peter probably given to his first wife than to her?

      This thought cut her to the heart, and without moving her lips she addressed a series of questions to the silent portrait, which still gazed steadily and serenely at her from its plain frame.

      Once it seemed as if the full lips of the pictured face quivered, once that the eyes moved. A chill ran through her veins, she began to be afraid, yet could not leave the portrait, and stood gazing upward with dilated eyes.

      She did not stir, but her breath came quicker and quicker, and her eyes seemed to grow keener.

      A shadow rested on the dead Eva's high forehead. Had the artist intended to depict some oppressive anxiety, or was what she saw only dust, that had settled on the colors?

      She pushed a chair towards the portrait and put her foot on the seat, pushing her dress away in doing so. Blushing, as

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