IN spite of the hospitable entreaties of Adrian, Dirk persisted in lodging at the Toelast during his stay in Utrecht. Now that he had grown older, he could not help seeing, between him and his friends, even though they saw it not, ‘the pale spectrum of the salt.’ He hoped one day to remove it, for was not the soldier’s calling the road to rank, as well as to fortune? He meant to do it, if he lived; but in the meantime the little lady of his dreams was ever to him ‘the Juffrouw.’
However, the next morning, which was Sunday, he went early to his friends, and accompanied them to the church of Pastor Duifhuis. They happened to hear a political sermon; in those days ‘preaching to the times’ was very usual, and very useful too, when ‘done unto edification.’ It was perhaps even necessary, in the absence of newspapers and other modern agencies for the spread of information and the education of opinion, and at a crisis when the lives and liberties of the hearers were at stake.
Duifhuis took his test from what he called the Second Book of Kings, and we call the Second Book of Samuel, ‘Now, therefore, why speak ye not a word of bringing the King back?’ It soon became evident that the King he meant was the Prince of Orange.
During this breathing time from sanguinary and disastrous war, so precious and possibly so brief, the Prince proposed to make a circuit through the towns and districts which had submitted to his sway. If the men. of Utrecht were men of understanding, men who ‘knew the times, and what Israel ought to do,’ now would they hasten to sink all minor differences, all mere party questions, and send an ambassage to him, imploring him to bless them also with his presence, and to take them also under his strong, just, and beneficent rule. Then, rising to a height of eloquence, inspired and ennobled by passionate patriotism, he urged upon them this one path of life and safety; as a man might well do who felt that the choice lay between the Prince of Orange and the King of Spain, and that behind the Spanish tyrant there loomed in dark shadow the stake, the rack, and the gibbet, for his hearers and for himself.
But at last—as if recalled suddenly to recollections of the time, the place, and the solemn duty still awaiting him—he pulled up hastily, and concluded with a general exhortation to trust in God and righteousness of life, inviting all who fulfilled these conditions to approach His Holy Table in humility and faith.
Tant’ Marie and Dirk remained, but Adrian withdrew, leading Roskĕ by the hand. ‘That was an excellent sermon,’ he said to the child as they walked home slowly through the quiet street. He often talked to her as to an older person.
‘Oh yes, father,’ said she, drawing a long breath of satisfaction. ‘We want the Prince. And he will come to us, know.’
‘How knowest thou that, ma mie? The Burgomaster and the Town Council would be glad enough to know it. But they have treated him hitherto with so much coldness and suspicion, I wot they are afraid he will scarce listen to them now, however humbly and earnestly they ask him.’
‘I know he will come. I have been asking God to send him all the time. Ever since we came here.’
‘And it seems to thee that the God of all the earth will listen to the voice of one little girl in Utrecht, and do what she asks Him? Is it so, Roskĕ?’
‘It does not seem, it is. He listens to me—always.’
‘Poor child!’ said Adrian unawares. He said no more; not for worlds would he have disturbed the simple faith of the little one.
‘He is so good, father. He thinks of everything. He sent Tant’ Marie news of Mynheer Wallingford; and now He has sent Dirk back to us, and made him not to be an Anabaptist any more.’
‘True enough. He would not now have remained with the rest if he had not joined the Reformed Church,’ Adrian observed. ‘Wert praying for that too?’
Roskĕ nodded. ‘Because,’ she explained, ‘they say the Anabaptists did dreadful things long ago in Münster, and Dirk would not like to be joined with people who do dreadful things.’
‘Roskĕ, my child, look up at me, and tell me true—Didst ever ask for something thou didst not get?’
‘Roskĕ looked up; then looked quickly down again, a deep flush over-spreading her face. She would rather have been silent, but she was nothing if not truthful, so she said slowly, I think—only one thing. And that—will come.’
‘What is that one thing?’
‘Must I tell, father?’ her voice was very low.
‘I should like my Roskĕ to tell me.’
‘That you,’ she whispered, ‘that you—would stay—where Dirk and Tant’ Marie are. But I think,’ she added more confidently, ‘He is only waiting till I am old enough to go, because He thinks we would like to go together.’
‘My little girl wants “father” to have every good thing in the world! But why dost think that such a good thing, Roskĕ?’
Because of the dear Lord. Because we love him so. Don’t we, father? She looked up confidently with her blue eyes into the face she loved. His answering look was more than a caress. No doubt, at all events, of his love for her! But they had now reached the door of their house, and went in.
When they next met, Adrian questioned Dirk, with some interest, about his change of faith.
‘I have not changed my faith, Mynheer,’ he answered, ‘only my name. It went hard with me to do that, because of my father. But, save for the name, I did not see that there was much difference. I have naught to do with the baptizing of infants, nor learning enough to understand about it. Still I think, even if they who do it do wrong, He will not be very angry who said, “Suffer the little children to come unto Me.” And it troubled me sore, when I was with the Army, for such a doubtful thing as that to keep apart from my brethren, not to hear the preaching of the Word, nor to sing hymns with them, nor to go to the Holy Supper. Still, it cost a struggle—for my father’s sake. I doubt I would have given in—but for the Prince.’
‘What had he to do with it? Does he forbid Anabaptists to fight for him?’
‘Anabaptists do not fight, Mynheer. My doing so was in itself a kind of forsaking of them, though I was too young and ignorant to know it. But the thing the Prince did was, not to forbid, but to protect them. Wherever he has power, there may no man injure them, nor deny them the rights of citizens, if only they are quiet and law-abiding.’
‘So you have left the Sect, because the Sect is no longer persecuted. An odd reason, is it not?’
‘A good reason, I think, Mynheer. Never would I have disowned the name my father bore, while it was a name proscribed, and cursed of all men. While there was a risk of martyrdom—martyrdom like his (Dirk’s voice dropped low, and a tender, reverent look crossed his face)—that risk would I not refuse. But now that other Christians stretch out to us the hand of kindness, may we not take it, and be one with them? The Chaplain of our Regiment is a good man, beloved of all. I spoke to him, and he let me join the rest.’
‘You did a good thing, Dirk,’ Adrian said. ‘If we Protestants could only unite, we might conquer the world. But our dissensions, I often fear, will be our ruin.’
‘If we cared less, we would contend less. But then also, we could not have endured so much,’ Dirk answered.
Roskĕ coming in presently, and Adrian leaving them together, he asked her, ‘Have you put the poppets quite away, Juffrouw?’ He had a tender recollection of poor battered Käatje, to whom he always traced the beginning of his friendship with the Juffrouw.
‘Oh, I have Jan and Lize somewhere still—that is, their bodies. But I have not looked at them this long, long time. The fact is, Dirk,’ lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, ‘they have grown too big.’
‘What? The poppets?’
‘No, Jan and Lize themselves. They have grown too big for their bodies. You see, they would grow up. Then they wanted so many things. Jan wanted to go to the war, and fight for the Prince—and he went. And Lize has a soldier lover, like Tant’ Marie. And things happen to them, you know;—Jan is very good and brave, the other day he took town. But you see, Dirk, a wooden poppet could not do all that. So it had to be left behind.’
But poppets, whether of wood or of ‘imagination all compact,’ were soon driven wholly out of Roskĕ’s mind. For the City Fathers yielded to the prayers of the whole community, and sent a deputation to the Prince, imploring his presence. Adrian, shaken once more out of his dreamy indifference, had supported the movement with all his heart, so heartily indeed that he was invited to form one of the deputation.
But the shy, reserved scholar declined the honour. Much as he reverenced the Prince, he had no desire to stand before great men. The study suited him better than the Court: though perhaps not devoid of ambition, it was the praise of the learned he desired, and not that of princes.
Roskĕ was nearly out of her senses—for a day with disappointment at his refusal, and for many days after with excitement and expectation. The deputation brought back a favorable answer; and straightway the whole city went into raptures.
Every one was in a fever of preparation; and there was nothing talked of, from morning to night, but triumphal arches and decorations, processions and banquetings, public rejoicings of all sorts and descriptions.
Dirk put off his intended departure to see the Prince and share the festivities. Marie was cheerful and hopeful, Roskĕ in a frenzy of delight; only Adrian felt a touch of sadness. Days long past in Antwerp when he wooed and won his Rosa, came back to his thoughts.
Roskĕ’s recollections could only go back to the Prince’s coming to Leyden, the day after the wonderful Relief; which, with the one exception of her mother’s death, had given her young life its most striking impression. ‘And he spoke that day to you, Dirk,’ she said. ‘This time, I hope, he will speak to me.’
‘Foolish child!’ said Tant’ Marie, ‘Thy tongue runs away with thy wit. The Prince speak to thee! What next, I wonder?’
Even this touch of blame Dirk resented for his little lady. ‘You know, Juffrouw,’ he said to Tant’ Marie, ‘Her Excellency the Princess is coming with the Prince. They say she is a most sweet and gracious lady, and I am sure she would love Juffrouw Roskĕ well, if she could but see her. And she would ask the Prince to speak to her.’
No doubt it was Dirk’s fault, for putting such thoughts into Roskĕ’s head, that she appeared next morning in the character of a modem Joseph, a teller of glorious dreams. ‘I dreamed,’ she announced at breakfast, ‘that the Prince took me up in his arms, as Dirk used long ago when I was little.’
Even Adrian joined in the laughter that followed.
‘Wise people are too busy by day to dream much by night,’ he said. ‘Or, if they do, they keep their dreams to themselves.’
‘Especially such dreams as savor of pride and vainglory,’ said Tant’ Marie. ‘Roskĕ will be dreaming next that the King of Spain has offered her his son in marriage.’
‘The King of Spain,’ said accurate Roskĕ, well pleased in her turn to correct her aunt, ‘the King of Spain has no son—for he killed him.’ (Such, at the time, was the popular version of the story of the unfortunate Don Carlos.) ‘And, if he had twenty, and they all came to me on their knees, I would not look at one of them! But, father, is it wrong to dream?’
‘No, ma mie, not wrong. Some of us might be glad to dream a little more. But it is not over-wise to tell our dreams, lest folk should laugh at us, and I would not any one should laugh at thee, my Roskĕ, Perhaps,’ he added, more than half to himself, ‘it is me they would laugh at, could they guess the half I have dreamed about thee, Roskĕ,’