After this there was a long silence, and none could tell what had happened, although a horrible report reached them that Leyden had been taken, sacked, and burnt, and all its inhabitants massacred. They lived in comfort here in Norwich, for the firm of Munt and Brown, Dirk van Goorl’s agents, were honest, and the fortune which he had sent over when the clouds were gathering thick, had been well invested by them and produced an ample revenue. But what comfort could there be for their poor hearts thus agonised by doubts and sickening fears?
One evening they sat in the parlour on the ground floor of the house, or rather Lysbeth sat, for Elsa knelt by her, her head resting upon the arm of the chair, and wept.
“Oh! it is cruel,” she sobbed, “it is too much to bear. How can you be so calm, mother, when perhaps Foy is dead?”
“If my son is dead, Elsa, that is God’s Will, and I am calm, because now, as many a time before, I resign myself to the Will of God, not because I do not suffer. Mothers can feel, girl, as well as sweethearts.”
“Would that I had never left him,” moaned Elsa.
“You asked to leave, child; for my part I should have bided the best or the worst in Leyden.”
“It is true, it is because I am a coward; also he wished it.”
“He wished it, Elsa, therefore it is for the best; let us await the issue in patience. Come, our meal is set.”
They sat themselves down to eat, these two lonely women, but at their board were laid four covers as though they expected guests. Yet none were bidden—only this was Elsa’s fancy.
“Foy and Martin might come,” she said, “and be vexed if it seemed that we did not expect them.” So for the last three months or more she had always set four covers at the table, and Lysbeth did not gainsay her. In her heart she too hoped that Foy might come.