ONCE again Antwerp rejoiced and made holiday, but this time the joy in the hearts of men was greater than its outward signs and tokens. There were more silent prayers than loud acclaims, more of the voice of praise and thanksgiving than of feasts and flowers and triumphal arches. ‘Father William’ was given back from the gate of the grave. He was going in state to the cathedral, to return thanks to Almighty God. It was, the 2nd of May, 1582.
‘No, my dear Marie, you must not think of it,’ had Adrian said to his sister that morning, as, with the glad courage of returning health, she actually proposed attending the service. ‘Child, every spot in the great church is filled even now, with those who are willing to stand there patiently for hours.’
‘I am willing, brother.’
‘But not able. Ask Edward. No, take thy seat instead at this window here, and thou shalt see all. They will pass through the Place on their way.’
Marie yielded to the necessity. She was rewarded by a good view of the Prince, as he drove by at a foot pace, acknowledging the enthusiastic greetings and congratulations of the crowd. But she saw, with much disappointment, that the seat beside him was occupied by his eldest daughter. Where was the gentle lady who had shared his suffering, that she should not snare his joy and triumph now?
Marie was prepared to see him, worn and wasted, the shadow of his former self. In his face, more than ever before, was that depth of sorrowful thought which looks out upon us from the noble portrait of Miereveldt—sad, steadfast, strong, as of one who has struggled and suffered—calm, as of one who has overcome, but overcome for others, accepting for himself the cross, and not the crown. Care had furrowed the brow behind which worked and throbbed that great and ever active brain; and already the lines about the lip showed a weariness that hinted the approach of age. But there was no weakness. He knew indeed that his days were numbered. From this time forth, he held as certain what his best friend, St. Aldegonde, said on hearing of the Ban, ‘Now is the Prince a dead man.’ But the dead know not fear, nor hate, nor anger; and as free from all these was the still, strong man, who held his hand unmoved on the helm of State, and his eye on the polo-star of duty, although the poniard of the assassin flashed for ever before him. Nor could the failures, the misunderstandings, the ingratitude of friends accomplish what the malice of foes had failed to do. ‘St. Aldegonde,’ he said once, to the faithful friend who deplored to him these injuries, the hardest of all to bear— ‘St. Aldegonde, let them trample upon us, provided we help the Church of God.’
But Marie did not see all this, nor a tenth of it. Moreover, her own affairs gave her just then a great deal to think about. ‘Those grave and reverend Signors,’ the Pastors, both Walloon and Flemish, had taken counsel over her betrothal, and unanimously pronounced it null and void. The last obstacle to her union with Edward being thus removed, he was most anxious it should take place a, soon as she was sufficiently restored to health. Adrian warmly took his part. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘you have both encountered troubles and difficulties enough, you may hope now for a little comfort.’ After the wedding, Edward might bring his bride to England, or continue in the service of the Estates, according to his own inclination, and the turn taken by public affairs. He was in no need of money, as he could draw upon. English bankers in Antwerp for all that he required; and for the present he could either take a lodging elsewhere, or they might remain in the house of Dame Catherine, where there was plenty of room. The sooner things were settled, the better for all.
These considerations had been duly set before Marie on the previous day, by her brother with calm and ‘sweet reasonableness,’ by her lover with tender, passionate pleadings; and she decided now that she would say to them, ‘Whatever you both think right—that am I ready to do.’
That evening Edward preferred his petition that she would name a day within the following week. ‘Long patience should be crowned at last,’ he said. ‘And surely we have waited long enough for each other, my beloved. With me the Patriarch’s seven years are full told, and more.’
Finally, the following week was agreed to, but the last day of it, ‘for,’ said Marie, ‘I should like at least to get me a new gown and coif.’ There was a blush on her cheek, but a smile on her lip, and a sparkle in her bright, dark eyes, as of the days of old, before she knew sorrow.
‘Never thinking, I warrant me,’ said Neeltje, ‘of the venison pasties, or the custards, or the subtilties in sugar that will have to be made. Dame Catherine and I are like to have our hands full, at all events—and don’t you look so saucy, Jan Tielman. “Patience surpasses learning”; and, for a maiden who respects herself, a year’s betrothal, and a good chest of linen spun by her own hands, is the proper thing. But I own, “everything has two handles”; and when folk have waited for one another liter Mynheer Wallingford and Juffrouw Marie, ‘tis time they were rewarded.’
Yet, after all, there was no wedding the next week. For the loving and loyal hearts in the Place aux Gants were too full of sympathy and sorrow to think of their own happiness, while death was in the Prinsen-hof. The malice of Philip and the greed of Anastro found a victim there, though not the one they intended. Only three days after the glad thanksgiving in the cathedral, the gentle spirit of Charlotte of Bourbon was called home. Worn out by her long anxiety and nursing, she had no strength left to withstand an attack of pleurisy, which otherwise might have been easily subdued. The call was sudden, and she had much to live for—few have ever had more—yet no word of grief or regret at leaving all comes back to us across the centuries. Words of hers we have, indeed, but they only breathe a steadfast hope and assured trust in God. We may pause for a moment to recall a few of them. ‘I give thanks to God my Father,’ writes Charlotte of Bourbon, who has given me... assurance of salvation and of eternal life, through the infinite merits of Jesus Christ His Son, Very God and Very Man, my only Saviour and Redeemer, Justifier and Mediator.... I resign my spirit into His hands, praying Him not to look upon the multitude of my sins, but to look upon me in the face of Jesus Christ, His well-beloved Son, pardoning me through the merits of His death, clothing me with His righteousness, and through His grace accepting me, as His dear child, and receiving me into the joy and glory which He has prepared for all His elect, in His eternal kingdom.’
A stately funeral, ‘with two thousand mourning mantles,’ showed the sorrow and the sympathy of the great city. But the chief mourner was not there, the arrow had gone too deep into his heart. For once, grief overwhelmed him; he bowed, he almost sank beneath it. It was greatly feared that a relapse would follow. But presently he rose again, sorrowful, yet strong. William the Silent took up silently the burden of his life, and bore it on until the end.
Adrian ministered to the Princess as he had done so lately to the Prince: and he mourned for her sincerely.
With his approval, the marriage of Edward and Marie was deferred; and when at last it did take place, it was very quiet, unaccompanied by the feasting and revelry usual at the time. Only there reigned in two hearts a calm, deep gladness; gratitude for the past inspiring and strengthening hope for the future. ‘Thank God,’ Edward said, when all was done, ‘Thank God for giving us each to the other!’
‘I do,’ Marie answered, ‘and I thank Him more for having given Himself first to each of us.’
There was a modest wedding supper, at which Adrian entertained a few guests—amongst them Pastor Grandpére and his wife, Dr. Hasselaer, a merchant or two with their wives, and a couple of English gentlemen, friends of Wallingford. One of those curious coincidences which are of not unfrequent occurrence marked the occasion. Whilst they sat at table, a letter was brought to the bride; and Marie, who had not received half a dozen in the course of her life, observed that, nearly two years before, when most of the same party were there at supper, Dr. Maldeer had had one for her in his pocket, though he forgot to deliver it. Moreover, when, with due apologies to the company, it was opened and real, it proved to be from the same place, though not from the same hand. The aged English Béguine had gone to her rest. The ‘mother’ of the Béguines wrote to inform Mademoiselle Marie Pernet of the fact; and to say that their venerable sister had left her a sealed packet containing a bequest, which must be delivered only into her own hands, or into those of her brother.
When the guests had departed, Adrian said, ‘It is very certain, my sister, that you cannot go to Amsterdam. So I must.’ In those days people spent their ‘honeymoon’ at home; and when they had to travel, they made their wills first. ‘And I should like to do it,’ he added. ‘Amsterdam have I never seen; so I shall be glad to visit it, taking Leyden on the return journey, and’ —he added in a lower voice— ‘perhaps Utrecht. Dirk will come with me.’
Marie exclaimed sorrowfully at the thought of his leaving them, and so did Wallingford. But it was plainly the right thing to do. They urged him, however, not to prolong his absence; and the rather as they themselves, eventually, might settle in England.
They remained for the present in a commodious lodging rented by Edward in the Place Verte; while Adrian and Dirk took their passage in a ship bound for Amsterdam.