MARIE lay on her bed. She was looking vaguely, with large, wide-open eyes, which seemed to fill the whole of her wasted face, at the carving on the oaken bedstead, and at the blue roses on the damask coverlet, feeling a sort of dull wonder that they were blue, not red. She saw too a little table near her bed, with a goblet of Venetian glass, and a silver spoon upon it. As she looked, a ray of sunlight fell on these, making a rainbow with the glass, and a tiny sun in the bowl of the spoon. She did not like the brightness, it hurt her; still, she scarcely cared enough even to close her eyes. She was very, very tired. Presently, however, the light was shut off—how, she neither knew nor cared. Then some one filled the spoon, and put it to her lips. She liked that still less, but she had to open her lips, and make the great effort of swallowing. After that her eyes closed of themselves, and she slept.
She slept and waked, waked and slept again, and took what was given her passively, conscious of nothing but weariness, and a great longing for rest. But, after a time, more speculation came unto the great dreamy eyes, more power into the brain behind them. Those around her became persons, not mere moving shadows. Adrian was there, her dear brother; Edward was there, her true love. It was usually Edward’s hand that gave her the spoonful of capon broth, or of wine soup, and that seemed to her all right. There stole over her a sense of perfect rest and peace.
Then, gradually, for there is no light without shadow, there came also a feeling that she—and they all had been passing through some terrible conflict and suffering. It troubled her that she could not think what it was all about. Whenever she tried, bad dreams came to her, and she was forced to stop. All was dim and indistinct, and she could not ask any one, because she could not speak. She could frame the words quite clearly in her mina, but when she tried to utter them, they would not come.
At last she heard some one say in her presence, ‘The Prince is improving rapidly, thank God!’ ‘Now,’ she thought— ‘now I know all. We are in Leyden, and the siege is going on. The Prince lies ill, meanwhile, with foyer.’ She did not remember that the fact of his illness was not known in Leyden until the Relief.
Then a kind-looking woman, whose name she could not recall, came to her with the inevitable spoonful of soup. It occurred to her that they were giving her very little, and she thought she knew the reason. She made a great effort, and said distinctly, though in a low, weak whisper: ‘I hope there is—some —for every one?’
‘I don’t know about every one, Juffrouw,’ was the answer, ‘for “he need have plenty of meal who would stop every one’s mouth.” But I know the doctor and Mynheer Wallingford will be better pleased to hear your voice again than a starving man to hear the dinner-bell. Take another spoonful, dear heart.’
Marie had no objection. She thought the siege and shortness of bread must be over now; and pondering farther on the subject, remembered the Great Deliverance, and the giving of thanks in the church. ‘How glad I am,’ thought she, ‘that no one knows I fancied the siege was going on still! It was so stupid of me! My brother and Edward would surely have thought I was out of my mind.’
The siege being over, a whole cup of soup might be taken with a clear conscience. Strength was returning, and increased power of thought kept pace with it—she began to realize that she had been very ill. She had passed through some horrible anguish of fear and sorrow. That had made her ill; but she was better now—better, and quite happy. Only one trouble weighed on her all this time—where was Rose? Then, gradually, she remembered that too. Rose was in heaven. How glad she was again, that she had not asked Adrian about her before she grew quite well, and remembered everything! It would have grieved him so! It would have been far worse than asking foolish questions about food, and the progress of the siege. But now she was herself again, and knew everything. She knew that if she were strong enough to get up, and go and look out at yonder window, she would see the spire of the great church where they had gone to give thanks.
She feared Edward would soon have to leave her, and go to the war. Dirk would have to go too; Dirk, whom at first she had not seen, but who was with her often now. She wondered to see him grown so tall. But where was Roskĕ? She quite understood the child’s being kept away while she was so very ill, and like to die; but why did she not come to her now?
Pastor Grandpére visited her, prayed beside her, and exhorted her unto patience and thankfulness. She asked him if the plague was yet stayed in the city.
Adrian had cautioned him not to disturb her fancies too suddenly, so he gave an evasive answer. ‘The city,’ he said, ‘is giving thanks to God for His great mercy;’ meaning, for the good hopes of the Prince’s recovery.
There came a day when Adrian and Edward carried her down to the sitting-room, and laid her on a couch near the window. She looked out, and saw the little Place, and one corner of the cathedral.
‘I don’t seem to know the place at all,’ she said wonderingly. Edward just then was called away to see a friend from England. She turned her wistful, wondering eyes on Adrian, who was busy arranging her cushions. ‘So many things puzzle me,’ she said.
‘They will all grow clear as you grow stronger,’ Adrian answered.
‘I must wait,’ said Marie with a sigh. ‘And, indeed, it is not hard, every one is so good to me. Only one thing I fain would know, for it troubles me sore. Brother, where is Roske?’
Adrian turned his face away. His own heart would ask that, until death stilled its throbbings. After a silence he said, ‘She is at Home,’ and went out of the room.
Dirk was standing in the passage. ‘Go and fetch Wallingford,’ he said to him. ‘Marie needs him. Tell him to soothe and comfort her. Tell him, too, that she knows so much now, it may be well she knew a little more. But he will be the best judge of that.’
Dirk at once turned to go; but Adrian laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder. ‘Dirk, she has asked for Roskĕ,’ he said. Very seldom did he voice the name that was in his heart forever.
‘She will be grieved when she remembers,’ Dirk answered in a low tone.
‘She has Edward. When they marry, thou must stay with me still—always. Dirk, that grave in Utrecht belongs to thee and me.’
Thenceforward, more than ever, if that were possible, the soul of Dirk Willemszoon clave to the soul of Adrian Pernet.