“This betrothal does not please you; you are sad, wife,” said Dirk, looking at her quickly.
“Yes, husband, for now I think that we shall never get out of Leyden. I pray that Adrian may not hear of it, that is all.”
“Why, what has he to do with the matter?”
“Only that he is madly in love with the girl. Have you not seen it? And—you know his temper.”
“Adrian, Adrian, always Adrian,” answered Dirk impatiently. “Well, it is a very fitting match, for if she has a great fortune hidden somewhere in a swamp, which in fact she has not, since the bulk of it is bequeathed to me to be used for certain purposes; he has, or will have, moneys also—safe at interest in England. Hark! here they come, so, wife, put on a pleasant face; they will think it unlucky if you do not smile.”
As he spoke Foy re-entered the room, leading Elsa by the hand, and she looked as sweet a maid as ever the sun shone on. So they told their story, and kneeling down before Dirk, received his blessing in the old fashion, and very glad were they in the after years to remember that it had been so received. Then they turned to Lysbeth, and she also lifted up her hand to bless them, but ere it touched their heads, do what she would to check it, a cry forced its way to her lips, and she said:
“Oh! children, doubtless you love each other well, but is this a time for marrying and giving in marriage?”
“My own words, my very words,” exclaimed Elsa, springing to her feet and turning pale.
Foy looked vexed. Then recovering himself and trying to smile, he said:
“And I give them the same answer—that two are better than one; moreover, this is a betrothal, not a marriage.”