‘THAT is all very well, M. Perrenot, but you must see for yourself that something will have to be done with the child.’
These were the concluding words of a colloquy which Adrian and Betteken held together on the stairs, outside the door of Adrian’s room. On the previous day Gille de Marchemont had been carried to his rest by devout men, who made great lamentation over him. Yet they were happy, and beyond their expectation, in that they could lament him. They and theirs had drained for long years that bitterest cup of sorrow, when the living dare not mourn their dead; nor indeed do they greatly wish it, since ‘better is it with the dead that are already dead than with the living who are yet alive.’ But now through a passing rift in the clouds there came a transient gleam of sunshine, which shone nowhere more brightly than on the peaceful new-made grave of the brave missionary preacher.
But the burden of life had to be taken up again by those left behind. Adrian found it heavier than he expected. Never before had he seen the light fade out of eyes he had learned to love; and he did not like the sensation. What had come over him, that he should go with bowed head and languid footsteps—that he should feel his eyelids wet with unaccustomed tears—he who had not wept since he was a child at his mother’s knee? Who was this heretic preacher, that he should weep for him? But then he had grown so accustomed to his presence, and it was so lonely without him now. What would it be when Rose too should leave him? As leave him she must for all reasons, and the sooner the better.
That bright, sweet maiden—that fair and loving child! What would be her fate, cast out upon this cold and cruel world? Who was Betteken, to shelter her? She would do what she could; she would share her last trust with her, nay, starve herself that Rose might lack nothing. But how little she could do; and what a rough, sordid life it would be for the tender Rosebud! She would have to work with her hands—those small, soft hands, so deft in all womanly household tasks, so unfit for hardship or drudgery. Why was there not some one, strong and kind and tender, to save her from all this, to draw her close and bold her fast, to tend and cherish her as a frail, sweet child, yet all the time to serve her as a crowned queen? Adrian felt almost ready, for her sweet sake, to turn knight-errant, and go and search the great world through and through for such a one.
Such thoughts as these coursed wildly through his agitated mind as he went to visit his patients; too absorbed even to notice, as he passed along, how quiet the streets were now, how no one cried after him, or taunted him with his unfortunate surname. The only cries to be heard now were ‘Vivent le Roi et les Gueux!’ or, more heartily uttered yet, ‘Vivat Oranje!’ But even these were at a discount, being disliked by him whose strong hand was on the helm.
Rose, meanwhile, sat in her place, her eyes heavy with weeping, her hands holding listlessly a piece of uncared-for needlework. She had overheard Betteken’s last words, which were spoken unconsciously in a higher key than usual.
‘Something must be done with me.’ she repeated sadly to herself. ‘I suppose so. But what? I do not greatly care. What I should like best is to lie down quietly beside him, and be at rest.’
‘When Betteken came back she roused herself a little. Betteken!’ she said.
‘What wouldest thou, my child?’ Betteken had not said ‘my child’ hitherto, but ‘Mejuffrouw,’ or ‘Juffrouw Rosa,’ but her motherly heart opened wide to the orphan now.
‘The doctor has gone out, he will not return for a long time. May I—dost think I may—go in once more to the other room?’
‘I see naught to hinder. Only, my child, remember too much sorrow is not good—nor right, for us who sorrow not without hope.’
“Jesus wept,” the girl murmured.
‘Ay, He wept, that our tears might be wiped away forever. But as the time for doing it has not come yet, I will not say you nay.’
‘It is not to weep, but to pray—where, all those months, he prayed so much,’ Rose whispered.
She went in, closed the door behind her, and knelt on the spot where she had watched her father’s parting breath. But she could not pray, the scene came back to her too vividly; she could only weep and sob as though never a tear before had relieved her burdened heart. Spent at last with weeping, she rose, and went to the little window, that the fresh air might cool her burning cheek and brow. She avoided with a shudder the curtained recess where she knew the skeleton was, for the terrible thought came to her—as come it sometimes will to all—of ‘the bondage of corruption,’ and that which it implies. Thank God for the instinct—stronger than reason, stronger sometimes than faith even—which, when we look on the grave, tells us our beloved are not there!
Presently Rose looked up to the summer sky, deep, blue and radiant, thought of her father beyond it, in the glory, and was comforted. Sorrow differs from sorrow as much as night differs from night. There is infinite variety—as storm or calm, summer or winter, moonshine, star-shine, or thick darkness, hold the sunless hours in sway. Rose’s sorrow was a moonless night, calm and still, and gleaming with a thousand stars. There are such griefs,
‘Deep as life or thought,
But stayed in peace with God and man.’
There are some who are left desolate, and yet can raise their tearful eyes to heaven and say with full hearts, ‘Thank God! we would not have it otherwise.’ There was nothing Rose would have had otherwise. Her father died in peace, without pain, a shock of corn fully ripe, gathered in its season; and yet not before he had seen afar off, like Moses, the coming deliverance of his people. What more was there to wish for him? Or for herself, if only she could have gone with him?
A step approached unheard, a hand touched her shoulder, a voice said, very quietly, ‘Mademoiselle Rose!’
She started, and turned a crimsoned face to the speaker. What right had she to be there?
Adrian answered her unspoken thought with one of his sudden flashes of tact. ‘I am singularly glad to find you here,’ he said, ‘for I want to speak with you.’
He placed a chair for her beside the window, and she sat down. A moment of silence followed, embarrassing to both. But he soon broke it. ‘Betteken says you must leave me,’ he said. ‘But even whilst he spoke the thought rushed over him like a wave, It is impossible.’
She only bowed her head, and silence ensued again. Yet she felt it was her part to speak now. ‘I want—to thank you,’ she began falteringly. ‘Had he a son, or I a brother—son or brother could not—have done—more.’
Adrian saw with dismay that she was on the point of breaking down. What should he do with a lady in tears? He hastened to say, ‘That you—and he—have both called me so repays me a hundredfold. But now, dear mademoiselle, I pray of you to tell me what it is you desire. Have you any friends to whom you wish to go? Any place, any home, to which your thoughts turn? If there be—I will compass heaven and earth, risk my life even—to bring you there. Only trust me.’
Her eyes sank beneath his, which were burning with a fire that frightened her. ‘No,’ she murmured.
‘Is it then that you do not trust me?’
‘Ah, not that! I do—I do. But I have no wish, no thought—and not much care—what may become of me. It does not matter now to any one.’
‘Not matter! It matters the whole world—worlds upon worlds—to me.’
Something in his manner, and still more in his look, filled her with a vague alarm. ‘Don’t be angry with me,’ she said, though knowing as she spoke that ‘angry’ was not at all the right word to use.
‘Angry!’ he repeated, in a voice she had never heard from him before. ‘That I should be angry with thee!’ He took her hand and held it. To himself, in that moment, there had come a revelation. In one flash of blinding illumination, which seemed to fill his whole being, he saw all—understood all—his own heart, to begin with. How had he been so dull? In his life of thought, the life of passion had slept hitherto. But now at last it had awaked, and his whole passionate soul was at this maiden’s feet.
He kept the hand he had taken, and forced himself to speak calmly. ‘I shall grieve indeed if, having no plan of your own, you refuse mine.’
‘I do not think I shall,’ Rose faltered timidly.
‘You have said I was to him as a son. I think you never knew he once called me son—said he loved me so.’
‘I am glad.’
‘That last day he told me also something which he bade me tell you—not now, in the aftertime. He must have meant that I should care for—should shelter you. Will you give me the right?’
She looked at him in dumb surprise. She did not understand.
‘A pastor of your own faith shall speak the words that give that sacred right before God and man,’ he said. ‘Junius, or another, as you will.’
Now, indeed, she could not fail to understand. She started, changed color, and trembled violently.
Adrian waited for an answer. But she could not think—could not feel—except what she had long felt—that he was the best, the wisest, the noblest man in the whole world—always excepting her dear, dead father.
Still there was one thing, which, because it had been impressed upon her mind from infancy, came back to her now, her first clear, distinct thought. ‘Oh, I cannot,’ she said, looking up for the first time.
Adrian’s heart quivered with an agony of fear. What if she did not—could not—love such a one as he? The thought was horrible—and but too horribly likely to be true.
He could only so far command himself as to breathe one word— ‘Why?’
‘You are not one of us.’
‘Rose,’ said Adrian, with immense relief of mind, ‘I am a Protestant.’
There was a pause.
Then he went on, gathering courage as he spoke. ‘All is clear to me now. It is what your father would have wished. Would to God I had but asked him
‘He trusted me to God,’ Rose whispered,— ‘if this be God’s way—’
‘What else? I am persuaded this thing was meant for us, and we for it—since we were born, and before it.’
A few minutes later Betteken knocked at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Adrian. She obeyed, but instantly started back, astonished. A changed and glorified Dr. Adrian, with a radiant face, stood holding the right hand of Rose, who was hiding her blushing face with the other.
‘Betteken,’ said Adrian, ‘I pray of thee to go to Master Franciscus Junius, greet him respectfully from me, and say that I want his help immediately in a very pressing matter, and one of deepest moment.’
Far too amazed to answer him, Betteken stood in silence, looking from one to the other.
Adrian resumed, ‘In the first place, I am about to join openly the Reformed Communion. Why do you look so doubtful? I thought you would rejoice.’
‘Because that is not the thing you have to say to me, Mynheer Adrian.’
‘True, it is not. Kind Betteken, true friend—wilt thou trust me to take care of thy pastor’s child? Rose de Marchemont has promised to be my bride, as soon as the laws of your Church will sanction our union.’
Rose slipped her hand out of his, and the next moment she was sobbing in the arms of Betteken.
‘My child—my child guard and bless thee!’ said the poor woman as soon as she could speak. Then to Adrian, gravely and solemnly— ‘God bring this thing to a good end, Mynheer!’
‘Amen!’ said Adrian earnestly. ‘And as I deal with this sweet child, even so may God deal with me.’