The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with a quick but silent step, quitted the room, before Schalken had time to say a word in reply.
The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher of Rotterdam would turn on quitting the studio, and for that purpose he went directly to the window which commanded the door.
A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the painter’s room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the street.
He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit.
Had the old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of the lobby for some bad purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind of Schalken with a vague horror, which was so unaccountably intense as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone and reluctant to pass through the lobby.
However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, having double-locked the door and thrust the key in his pocket, without looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrived in the open street.
“Mynher Vanderhausen,” said Gerard Douw within himself, as the appointed hour approached, “Mynher Vanderhausen of Rotterdam! I never heard of the man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait, perhaps, to be painted; or a younger son or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a collection to be valued; or—pshaw! there’s no one in Rotterdam to leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soon know it all.”
It was now the close of day, and every easel, except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless step of impatient expectation, every now and then humming a passage from a piece of music which he was himself composing; for, though no great proficient, he admired the art; sometimes pausing to glance over the work of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing himself at the window, from whence he might observe the passengers who threaded the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.
“Said you not, Godfrey,” exclaimed Douw, after a long and fruitless gaze from his post of observation, and turning to Schalken—“said you not the hour of appointment was at about seven by the clock of the Stadhouse?”
“It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir,” answered the student.
“The hour is close at hand, then,” said the master, consulting a horologe as large and as round as a full-grown orange. “Mynher Vanderhausen, from Rotterdam—is it not so?”
“Such was the name.”
“And an elderly man, richly clad?” continued Douw.
“As well as I might see,” replied his pupil; “he could not be young, nor yet very old neither, and his dress was rich and grave, as might become a citizen of wealth and consideration.”
At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse clock told, stroke after stroke, the hour of seven; the eyes of both master and student were directed to the door; and it was not until the last peal of the old bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw exclaimed:
“So, so; we shall have his worship presently—that is, if he means to keep his hour; if not, thou mayst wait for him, Godfrey, if you court the acquaintance of a capricious burgomaster. As for me, I think our old Leiden contains a sufficiency of such commodities, without an importation from Rotterdam.”
Schalken laughed, as in duty bound; and after a pause of some minutes, Douw suddenly exclaimed:
“What if it should all prove a jest, a piece of mummery got up by Vankarp, or some such worthy! I wish you had run all risks, and cudgelled the old burgomaster, stadholder, or whatever else he may be, soundly. I would wager a dozen of Rhenish, his worship would have pleaded old acquaintance before the third application.”
“Here he comes, sir,” said Schalken, in a low admonitory tone; and instantly, upon turning towards the door, Gerard Douw observed the same figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly greeted the vision of his pupil Schalken.
There was something in the air and mien of the figure which at once satisfied the painter that there was no mummery in the case, and that he really stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so, without hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated.
The visitor waved his hand slightly, as, if in acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained standing.
“I have the honour to see Mynher Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam?” said Gerard Douw.
“The same,” was the laconic reply of his visitant.
“I understand your worship desires to speak with me,” continued Douw, “and I am here by appointment to wait your commands.”
“Is that a man of trust?” said Vanderhausen, turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little distance behind his master.
“Certainly,” replied Gerard.
“Then let him take this box and get the nearest jeweller or goldsmith to value its contents, and let him return hither with a certificate of the valuation.”
At the same time he placed a small case, about nine inches square, in the hands of Gerard Douw, who was as much amazed at its weight as at the strange abruptness with which it was handed to him.
In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he delivered it into the hands of Schalken, and repeating his directions, despatched him upon the mission.
Schalken disposed his precious charge securely beneath the folds of his cloak, and rapidly traversing two or three narrow
