It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that Wolfert made his
visit to the inn. The grove of elms and willows was stripped of
its leaves, which whirled in rustling eddies about the fields. The
ninepin alley was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the day
had driven the company within doors. As it was Saturday afternoon
the habitual club was in session, composed principally of regular
Dutch burghers, though mingled occasionally with persons of various
character and country, as is natural in a place of such motley
population.
Beside the fireplace, in a huge, leather-bottomed armchair, sat the
dictator of this little world, the venerable Rem, or, as it was
pronounced, "Ramm" Rapelye. He was a man of Walloon[1] race, and
illustrious for the antiquity of his line, his great-grandmother
having been the first white child born in the province. But he was
still more illustrious for his wealth and dignity. He had long
filled the noble office of alderman, and was a man to whom the
governor himself took off his hat. He had maintained possession of
the leather-bottomed chair from time immemorial, and had gradually
waxed in bulk as he sat in his seat of government, until in the
course of years he filled its whole magnitude.
Pages:
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287