Not dated.— ‘The betrothal feast is over at last. I may doff lace and velvet, which I suit as ill as they suit me, don my old cloak, and sit down to complete my observations on the structure of the eye. I think I would rather go through a moderate siege, or a reasonable imprisonment, than the like again. But I should not murmur, since the principals in the transaction have taken so calmly what I thought would have been a terrible bloom to them. Truly, for lovers they are very philosophical; a thing no doubt much to be commended.
‘When I first, in fear and trembling, ventured to propose betrothal instead of marriage, I felt as one who rushes with all his weight to burst open a thrice-locked door, and lo! it yields at a touch. The shock of a too easy success was more startling to me than failure. If Wallingford had been I, and Marie Rose, in the days of our wooing! I fear the explanation is that poor Edward feels himself a doomed man, and would spare Marie an early widowhood, perhaps in a foreign land.
‘For he now propones making a visit to England, to see his friends, and arrange his affairs. He has duly informed the Estates of his deliverance’: his old commission was canceled long ago; but they will be very glad to give him a new one in the army they are raising to co-operate with, the French auxiliary force, if he should decide on remaining here. Through various untoward circumstances he has not yet seen the Prince, though he earnestly desires to do so—as earnestly, that is, as he seems to desire anything. Methinks he has so long looked martyrdom in the face that he cannot get rid of the martyr’s resignation and indifference to earth.
‘January 2, 1582.—This book has lain for months, forgotten, in my great iron-bound chest. I have found it now in seeking for another, so I may as well write down that Edward has returned from England, much improved in health, which is very comfortable to us al He brings tidings that the Queen will not marry Anjou; but that he—that is to say, Anjou—is coming over here next month, and then shall we have wonderful doings in this good town of Antwerp. Already the masters of the Guilds are devising miracles and mysteries and such like pageants, toys and flowers to hide the true significance and solemnity of this thing. This new Duke of Brabant, as we are to call him, is ready enough to swear all manner of oaths to us. But will he keep them? God knoweth.
‘January 12.—I fear Marie is being worn out by this long waiting. I asked her to-day if she did not rejoice in Edward’s restoration to health. Instead of answering me, she burst into tears and hurried out of the room. Of late I have noticed much unevenness in her spirits, which is a new thing with her. Oh, Rose, would thou wert with us now My Roskĕ too, if she had lived, would be by this time a young maiden, skilled in those ways of women which my grosser wit can by no means understand.
‘February 6.—I am growing yet more anxious about Marie. She does not eat, and I am sure she does not sleep. She has as much of the society of her betrothed as either of them seems to wish for (they are somewhat easily satisfied, all things considered), yet it does not appear to yield her overmuch content. It can scarcely be concern for his health that ails her. He is much stronger now, that is to say, so far as I can judge, for he does not greatly frequent my society.
‘February 11.—I have just overheard something which has given me much pain. I was in my study reading, and unawares had left open the door into the other room, which is concealed by a curtain. Marie was sitting there at her embroidery, and presently Edward came in. I heard his voice and hers in greeting, and some talk followed to which I gave no heed. But anon his words fell distinctly on my ear: “Why are you so sad of cheer to-day, my beloved?”
‘I could not help hearing every word of her answer, and I write down its substance.
“It is a dream I have had. I thought you came out of some dim distance, and walked slowly towards me. I ran to meet you with outstretched hands, glad of heart. But behold, as we approached, you were not yourself at all, but some one new and strange, whom I did not know. I tried to cry out, but my voice was choked, strangled, as by a hand on my throat. The face came nearer still—a dreadful face. For while I could not choose but gaze at it, it changed and changed, still keeping through all changes some horrible likeness to yours, till at last it showed the jaws of a monster, opening wide to devour me.” Edward laughed, and called it a case of nightmare, which it undoubtedly was. But why did the horror take that particular form, I wonder?
‘There was some further talk, their voices sinking low. But at last there came words of Marie’s, which I heard, “I often think, Edward, that you love me no longer now.” And then Edward’s answer, earnestly and solemnly spoken, “As much as I ever loved you in my life. I swear it before God.” But then, what less could a lover say?
‘February 13.—I have had, for a long time past, a deep distrust of Astrology, which I am careful to keep to myself. Were it otherwise, I should be persuaded Edward was born under the most unlucky of stars. I would that some of my Paduan friends had the casting of his horoscope. I wonder what they would make of it. Being very charitable, and having plenty of time at his command, he has been wont to spend much of it visiting the poor, and relieving their needs. This work of mercy has had a calamitous result, for him. As far as I can understand his story, which is none of the clearest, he was going to visit a sick person in one of the poorest streets, when he saw a man haranguing a crowd of people, telling them the Prince was sold to the French, and was bringing in the Duke of Anjou to trample on their liberties—with more of such stuff, which is talked, as we know, by certain foolish persons amongst us. Edward stopped, and was going to answer him, when the crowd took up the matter, and calling the orator Popish spy and traitor, rushed upon him with sticks and stones, and the terrible cry “Paapen, uit!” They would have killed him, Edward said, to a certainty, if he had not interposed. He got him off safely, but not till some one had fired a pistol at him, and the shot struck Edward, fracturing his sword-arm. A bad fracture too; the pain apart, it will be months before he has the use of it again. It is awkward, especially now, when all is in preparation for the Duke’s solemn entry, and when he is bringing with him a brilliant staff of English nobles and gentlemen— some of them, no doubt, friends of Edward, and of his family.
‘February 15.—Edward is better, but still suffering much, and in very low spirits. He is very sensitive to pain, a thing in which I have noticed men differ greatly, quite apart from the question of their courage or cowardice. Indeed, that may be the best kind of courage which feels danger or pain the most keenly, yet faces or endures it bravely. Silk makes a stronger cord than wool. Against Edward’s bravery have I naught to say, whatever I may think of his common sense Instead of going when he was hurt into some house at hand, and sending a messenger for me, he must needs walk off to the nearest barber-surgeon, get the bone set, and then walk back to his inn, nearly fainting with pain, and with no better escort than the barber’s apprentice. The lad got him to bed, then came to tell me, and of course I went to him at once. I would have had him come here, that his betrothed might minister to him; but this he will by no means do. More and more do I suspect that there is some serious misunderstanding between the two.
But the Duke is coming to-morrow, and I must needs go now and prepare for the part thrust upon me in bidding him solemn welcome to this our land, and hearing him take those oaths, as our new lord and governor, which we so devoutly wish he may keep with honest meaning and intent.
‘I must to the town hall, to get instructions about my place in the procession, and so forth. It goes hard with me to do this thing. But the Prince wills it. That is enough.
‘(Late the same evening.)—Since I wrote the above, Neeltje has come back from her walk through the city, to see the preparations for the morrow, in raptures to which a whole litany of proverbs can scarce do justice. Her greatest joy seems to be in the emblematic car, containing all the virtues. —Religion in red satin (a color very appropriate to the Religion I first knew here); Justice in orange velvet, a compliment doubtless to the Prince; Patriotism as a pelican, and Patience as a brooding hen; serpents also, with tails in their ears, signifying deafness to flattery. Would I could see Marie even a little entertained with these fooleries! Her sad face haunts me. Throughout her long years of suspense it was not half so sad. It is as the face of one whose heart is broken.
‘Neeltje tells me that the lad who brought us the news of Edward’s accident (and a more ill-favored youth have I never seen) was no barber’s apprentice, but a clerk, or servitor, of that Spaniard from whom I once thought Edward was borrowing money. Why can he not keep at least amongst honest English folk, his own countrymen, when there are so many of them here? But, doubtless, it is an excess of charity which leads him to those who most need his help.
‘I asked Neeltje if she had heard anything about the street brawl in which he got his hurt. She answered, “Yes, at least I heard of a fray,” with, as I thought, a look of surprise. But why should any one be surprised, when such things are happening continually? Scarce a day, I suppose, passes without them.
‘A thought has just come to me, given, it may be, by God. Why not send for Dirk, who is sitting idle at Cambray, where there is no prospect of any real fighting until spring? I can easily get leave for him; and he will give us just the help and comfort we are needing now. For he was Edward’s first friend, and loves him almost as an elder brother.
‘Pity, it seems to me also, for Dirk himself, that he should waste his youth in mere fighting. True, he is serving his country; and yet I think, with good guidance and instruction, he might serve his country in more important ways. How many pairs of hands is one head worth? Dirk’s head is no common one; I have found in him, for my joy, that noble curiosity about things worth knowing which is the pledge of future excellence. Yes; I will send for Dirk to-morrow.’