THE morning was soft and bright: it was Winter still, but Winter half awakened from her sleep by the whispered promises of Spring. The calm broad waters of the Scheldt were alive with shipping, sails of many hues and of all shapes and sizes dotted them everywhere. One white-sailed merchant ship, hailing from Leyden, turned from the vide Eastern Scheldt into the narrowing river, passed the forts of Lillo and Lifkenshook (their dreaded thunders silent now), and glided onwards towards the great city, already seen or guessed in the distance.
A lady sat upon the deck, clad warmly and comfortably in fur-lined cloak and hood of quilted silk, like a substantial burgher’s wife or sister. She would now be called a young lady; but in those days a woman of five-and-twenty, or thereabouts, was not called young; she was usually by that time a busy wife and mother, whose toils and cares had already taken the light out of her eyes, and left wrinkles upon her forehead.
There was light enough, that day, in the eyes of Marie Pernet for her to have spared some to her less favored sisters. Those bright dark eyes, radiant with inward happiness, were fixed upon the low green shores past which the ship was gliding. Not that she saw anything of exceptional interest there, a stray windmill or a group of cottages, usually in ruins, was mostly all. Still the long stretch of pure and vivid green, with the blue water between and the clear winter sunshine above, seemed to Marie as fair a scene as she had ever looked upon, for truly
‘We receive but what we give;
And in our live alone doth Nature live.’
Every vanished windmill and hamlet meant only, for her, one step nearer to Edward Wallingford. What though both Adrian’s letter and his messenger spoke of him as injured in health by his long captivity? He would soon recover now; joy and rest and freedom, and above all love, would restore him.
Meanwhile, in another part of the ship, the faithful Neeltje was collecting the baggage of her mistress, with a great expenditure of proverbial philosophy, and a little assistance from Adrian’s messenger, a clerk of Plantin’s named Veerkamp, who was accustomed to travel on his master’s business. Her task was the harder because Marie’s friends in Leyden had overwhelmed her with gifts for herself and her brother, and some of them—such as conserves and sweetmeats, and rare and costly plants—were of a kind distinctly troublesome to travelers.
Marie would not have cared just then had all of them been sunk in the sea. She gazed on, and with a brightening color, when the green line disappeared, and was replaced by gray walls and sombre buildings. But presently the ships and boats grew so numerous that they obstructed her view. Slowly, more slowly still, the good ship Hecuba threaded her way through them all; at first silently, then amidst distracting shouts and cries in a confusion of tongues. At last the quay appeared, crowded with porters, servants, apprentices and idlers of all sorts. The many-colored clothing men affected then, either from fancy or to mark their ranks and callings, gave the scene a far gayer look than it would have now.
Marie’s eager eyes sought for two figures, and found them. The Hecuba had been sighted in ample time for Adrian and Wallingford to take the short walk from the Place aux Gants to the quay. There they stood together, a tall figure in a doctor’s robe—and beside him? Marie’s heart throbbed so quickly that her eyes refused their office. A mist swam before them.
Ropes were thrown, and the ship made fast to the stanchions on the quay. Then planks were laid; and the two she watched were amongst the first to cross. The meeting looked for, prayed for so long, painted by fancy in a thousand different ways—came, and passed. It was over in a moment, and it was utterly unlike all she had pictured. The next thing she heard distinctly was the voice of Neeltje, ‘My masters, fair words won’t fill the sack. ‘Twill be too late to cry over spilled milk when all Mejuffrouw’s belongings, from her best brocade to her Leyden cheese, are carried off by these thieves of porters, heaven knows where. For that Veerkamp is as sharp as a leaden dagger, and runs as fast as if he had eggs in his shoes.’
A scene of bustle and confusion followed, in which Adrian took little part, though he commanded some attention by his liberal promises of largesse. At last, however, all was done, and Marie led away in triumph between her brother and her lover. Adrian was willing to cede to his companion the right hand and the right of way; but to his amazement saw him presently disappear, and found on looking back that he had gone quietly to the assistance of Neeltje, whom he was relieving of some of the parcels under the load of which she had staggered on shore, considering them far too precious to be entrusted to the porters.
‘I have heard,’ thought Adrian, ‘of a superfluity of naughtiness; but I never thought there was such a thing as a superfluity of goodness, until poor Edward came back from prison to show it.’
But Marie availed herself of the opportunity to ask eagerly: ‘Is he really ill, brother?’
‘Not ill exactly, dear sister; yet not, I fear me, in sound health—I think you will find him greatly changed—and remember above all things, you must not seem to wonder, or remark upon it.’
They soon reached the Place aux Gants. In view of Marie’s return, Wallingford had insisted on taking up his quarters in the neighboring inn; but he remained to share the dinner Dame Catherine had prepared in her honor. When it was over, Adrian withdrew, that the lovers might hold converse for a little ‘under four eyes.’ His own had been busy enough meanwhile.
He did not go to see his patients, or to the printing house of Plantin, to inspect the progress of those difficult anatomical engravings which were to illustrate his treatise. He chose instead a solitary walk outside the town, leading to the meadow where long ago the field preachings used to be held. There was no need for field preachings now; the pastors had what pulpits they wanted, and said in them what they pleased, none making them afraid. The good times for which in those old days they used to long, were come indeed. And yet— ‘oh for the touch of a vanished hand’ that had lain in his as he walked home from that proscribed field preaching! So earth gives and takes—giving, with one hand, the fruition of long-cherished hopes, and taking with the other that which made the spring of hope itself within us. ‘But,’ said Adrian, with a bright upward look, ‘“Thou hast kept the good wine until now.”’
His earthly cares now were all for others, not for himself. He was the guardian of his sister’s welfare, and he thought of her position and her prospects with much uneasiness. Wallingford was sure to desire a speedy marriage, and who could say such a desire was anything but reasonable? They had waited for each other long and patiently, indeed, until their youth was gone. Why should they lose more time than had been unavoidably lost already? Circumstances were favorable at present; there seemed the prospect of an interval of peace sufficient, at least, for the beginning of home life. He knew that Edward’s position in his own country was good; his means were sufficient, and Marie would not go to him quite empty-handed. While of his own disposition and character what could be said, except that he was too amiable, too unselfish?
At this point in Adrian’s meditations, the pale ghost of an old fancy, dismissed long ago, and more than half forgotten, flitted unbidden across his mind. A chance remark of Dame Catherine’s had called it up.
‘Have you ever noticed, monsieur, the look M. Valenvorde (so she called him) has of that young gentleman, your pupil, who went off from you so suddenly in the old days?’
‘Strange,’ he thought, ‘that this resemblance should strike her after so many years, just as it struck myself in Leyden! There must be a curious likeness between the two—a mere chance, no doubt. My Rose thought it foolish and mischievous for me to allow my mind to dwell on the matter. But this is how it happens when a man tries to think seriously—or to pray; all sorts of irrelevant, inconsequent thoughts come crowding into his mind. Let me resolve to banish them, and face the position calmly. In marrying this excellent, attractive, and in every way admirable man, my sister may be simply earning an early widowhood and a broken heart. Well, even if she knew it, she would probably choose— nay, insist on the sacrifice, for she loves him. But should I permit it? Oh that my Rose were here, with her woman’s wit, which was ever in her the truest wisdom! while I—ah me, I know nothing! Nothing, except a few secrets of Nature, which are no use to any one in such a strait as this.’
Long did he walk to and fro in that silent place—thinking, thinking. It well may be also that he asked counsel, though not of any human counselor.
At last an idea came to him. Edward and Marie had never been formally betrothed. Might they not be content to wait a little longer for the actual marriage, if their right to one another was recognized by a solemn betrothal? This ceremony, after the manner of the times, would permit of their enjoying afterward a good deal of each other’s society, while it would afford a breathing time which might decide their future. ‘We shall know what to do in the end—if Edward is still alive, and in his right mind,’ Adrian’s heart whispered sadly.
He went home resolved to propose this course to Edward and to Marie, but expecting a lively opposition. ‘Edward will call me the most-cruel of men, and no wonder,’ he thought.
‘Marie will say nothing, but she will hate me in her heart,’ a reflection which betrayed more knowledge of human nature than might have been expected from Dr. Adrian Pernet.