IN the very heart of rich, busy, prosperous Amsterdam, there was, and is, a secluded spot, almost hidden by the buildings round it; such a spot as no one goes to except on purpose. Rows of quaint, irregular houses with gabled fronts enclose a little square, in one corner of which is a plain chapel of gray stone, with a modest belfry. They have an air of peace and calm, which seems to brood over their inmates also. These, we believe, are even now all Roman Catholics. Many of them are aged women, who have found here a quiet shelter and retreat. They have no care for their daily wants; those of the poor amongst them being supplied, frugally but sufficiently, from a ‘Foundation,’ wherewith of old the Béguines of Amsterdam were endowed, and which has been secured them, through all religious and political changes, by Protestant tolerance and charity.
‘To this Home of Ancient Peace’ there came, in the spring of 1582, a weary-looking, ill-dressed wayfarer, who asked for the English lady. He was told she had ‘departed in God and in the odor of sanctity’ a few weeks before, but in pity for his apparent poverty he was offered food and temporary shelter.
Then he requested a private interview with the Mother of the Béguines, and told her all his story. He was that Austen Wallingford, for whose apprehension as a spy and a traitor a reward had been offered in Antwerp. Whilst the search was hot and the ships watched, he had found shelter and concealment with some poor Catholics of his acquaintance; and when the search relaxed he tried to slip away by sea. But he had to go on board by night, and in the darkness and confusion some mistake was made by those who conducted him, so that he found himself, to his dismay, in a ship bound for Leyden instead of for Ostend. To go to Protestant Leyden was to thrust his head into the lion’s mouth, and therefore he thought it best to continue his voyage to Amsterdam, where he hoped his kinswoman, the Béguine, would receive him. Nor was he disappointed; his kinswoman indeed was no more, but her Sitters accepted the obligation, which seemed to them a sacred one, of sheltering a persecuted champion of the Faith. A little room was given him in the cottage of the harmless old priest, whose ministrations to his flock were connived at by the Protestant magistracy, and the ancient ladies willingly supplied his modest requirements.
With that mysterious command of means of communication which has always distinguished his Order, he found confederates in the town, and contrived through one of them to send a letter in cypher to his superior in Tréves, reporting himself, and asking for instructions.
Whilst awaiting these, he tried, as he would have expressed it, ‘to possess his soul in patience.’ He had not the least idea that he did not possess his soul at all, having given it over to the keeping of another. No man feels the loss of liberty so long as he is being driven whither he most wants to go. The perfection of art in those who had the guiding of Austen Wallingford was this, that they made him want to go their way, and think it all the time emphatically his own. His sensitive nature was a harp, whose thrilling strings had been touched by a hand so skillful and so light, that it seemed to himself as though they were awakened only by the breath of heaven.
In his very boyhood he had devoted himself unbidden and secretly to the glorious, awful task of serving the Catholic Faith by taking out of the way ‘that which hindereth.’ These were the terms in which his instructors spoke to him, and in which he spoke to himself, of certain deeds which plain men might call by a different name. He had been by no means commanded, he had been only permitted, and that after much and earnest solicitation, to go and study under a physician for the purpose of acquiring knowledge which might be of use hereafter. ‘True,’ said his superior, ‘suppose you became a missionary, a knowledge of drugs would be convenient.’
Austen’s father was not rich; for he was a younger brother, with a large family, and he had besides expended considerable sums in the service of the Faith. He was therefore grateful to Cardinal Granvelle, who, in return for some obligation conferred upon a relative residing in England, had undertaken the education of the boy. The Cardinal did not care in the least whether his protégé became a priest or a physician. On hearing of his desire to study medicine, he quartered him upon Adrian, simply to save himself trouble. But as soon as Austen fancied, in his youthful inexperience, that he had found out what he wanted, he left Adrian and returned to England, where he consorted chiefly with hotheaded enthusiasts like himself. He speedily became involved in one of the numerous plots for the assassination of the Queen and the restoration of the Catholic Faith. But the danger he incurred thus was far from damping his zeal. Having, through the kindness of his uncle, escaped ‘by the skin of his teeth,’ as he said himself, he returned to Tréves, eager for new enterprises, new perils, and new glory.
So, as we have seen, he had greatly dared. And now he did not hide from himself that he had greatly failed. All was his own doing—the dream, the daring, and the failure. No one else was responsible—not in the least degree. He knew by this time that in this case ‘he that letteth’ was not taken out of the way. He knew too that he was not even weakened in purpose or shaken in courage; that the Cardinal’s expectation, when he counseled the Ban, that ‘fear alone would throw him into confusion,’ had been signally and splendidly disappointed. Austen owned to himself, with remarkable candor, that he owed his life to the magnanimous calmness and freedom from panic which had disdained wholesale arrests, rigorous inquisitions, and the employment of torture. ‘Had it been otherwise,’ he said, ‘I should certainly have been betrayed, by one or by another.’ Presently he added, sadly enough, ‘And after all, I have accomplished nothing; while I am perhaps the murderer of Marie Pernet, a sweet and innocent maiden, who might have been won back to the Faith.’
‘No, I do not like this work—I do not like it at all.’ So his thoughts ran on, when after a wordless interval they took form again. ‘What if, in thinking God called me to it, I have erred? Yes, I may or—who doubts it? It is my director who cannot err—as towards me. Perhaps I have forgotten the warning, “Seekest thou great things for thyself? Seek them not.” Perhaps even, if I am humble and patient, God and the Saints may let me serve them in future in some lesser, lowlier way.
‘My heart is toward England; I would fain go there, and minister to the scattered, persecuted flock of the Faithful. There are Jesuit colleges enough in Flanders, thanks to the Prince of Parma, where I may get my Orders, now that all our superiors have the power to confer them, by dispensation of the Pope.’
Austen was not yet a priest of the Church of Rome, though he had received certain of the ‘lesser orders,’ such as those of acolyte and exorcist. He esteemed the priesthood essential to qualify him for a mission in England: because only as a priest could he administer those sacraments upon which, as he thought, the eternal welfare of their recipients depended.
‘England! Beautiful England! Land of my fathers,’ he mused on still. Already thy fields are white unto harvest. Though it can scarce be said that the laborers are few, when so many self-devoted Brethren of our Order are toiling there at the peril of their lives. Twenty thousand converts, we are told, have they made there in one year alone—twenty thousand souls for Paradise! I will go forth—God willing—as one of these missionaries, and wander from place to place, baptizing, shriving, giving the Holy Sacrament to the Faithful. Blessed such a life, and if martyrdom be the end, blessed such a death—oh, how blessed! Then would I sing my Nunc Dimittis with a joyful heart! Then indeed would I go to God with garments stained with blood, but the blood would be only my own.
One day, as he mused thus, the answer came from his director. The old priest brought in the sealed note, gave it to him in silence, and withdrew. A moment afterward he heard a great cry, and the sound of a heavy fall. Hastening back as quickly as his feeble limbs would permit, he found Austen lying senseless on the floor with the paper crushed in his hand.
The poor old man could do but little for his guest, although goodwill was not wanting. Fortunately, Austen soon recovered consciousness, and was able to tell him it was only a passing weakness, brought on by evil tidings. He prayed him to bring him a light (it was evening now), and to leave him to himself.
The first use he made of the candle was to hold the letter in it until it was burned to ashes. He burned his fingers at the same time, and scarcely felt the pain. Thus, what the letter contained was known to two only—the writer and the receiver. But had any one been there to look at the paper as it curled and blackened in the flame of the candle, his eye might have caught the words— ‘the plough’ — ‘looking back’ — ‘the Kingdom of Heaven.’
It was Austen’s duty to burn that letter—and to obey it. To him, the voice of his director was the voice of God. Yet how could he?—how could he?
Was this being ‘like unto a corpse’?—to bow his head and weep his soul out in passionate revolt, because he must not go to England, but must, instead—go where ?—do what? A living man is hard to change into a dead corpse—Austen did not know how hard until the hour of trial came—until that which his soul abhorred was demanded from him. Heretofore he had only felt the softness of the velvet glove; now the iron hand within it clasped him like a vice, strangling his very life out.
Crime stood up before him, and boldly removing her hideous mask, showed beneath it the face of Duty. Or was it Duty that flung the veil aside, revealing the lineaments of Crime? Could it be aught but a crime to strike in the dark and at a noble life—the life of a man who—barring his heresy—was perhaps better, most certainly braver, than himself? Yet it was plainly right for him to obey his superior. There was no room for choice, for ‘private judgment’ in the matter. Obedience was the sole merit, disobedience the one sin for which there was no forgiveness here or hereafter.
His will rose up within him unslain; nay, strong as an archangel—or a demon. ‘I will not do this thing. It is a baseness.’ Then came his duty and his vow, and smote his will down as with an iron flail. Because it lay for an instant stunned beneath the blow, he told himself it was dead at last. He would make an end of the conflict and go to sleep.
But it was no more dead than the mighty host Ezekiel saw in vision, when the breath of God breathed over them. So, after every pause, the combat was renewed in all its violence and oil its agony. Austen Wallingford wrestled on, wrestled for life or death—though with no angel antagonist— ‘until the breaking of the day.’
The morning light stole in through the diamond panes of the little casement. But no light came with it to his tortured soul. His anguish was the anguish of one who is torn limb from limb. He was dragged at the same moment, and by what seemed resistless force, in contrary directions.
The sun—God’s sun—rose at last upon the world His creatures have made so miserable for each other. There were clouds—as so often in Holland—but a level ray spot through them, and rested on the humble couch where Austen had thrown himself, to satisfy his aged friend. He was thoroughly exhausted. ‘There is something I must do,’ he said feebly to himself. What is it? ‘Then, after a weary pause, ‘I know I must return to Antwerp; that is the first step. Why am I lying here? I ought to rise.’ He tried to do so, but sank back again fainting. Soon, however, he recovered himself so far as to think, ‘This is only the old weakness. I should know it well by this time. It will pass.’
The aged priest came to him, inquired after his health, brought him food, which he could not touch, and went forth to his daily duties. For a long time Austen lay still, and at last he slept. Some hours afterward he awoke again in full consciousness. He had come to himself, in more senses than one. But he was strangely faint and weak. A new sensation, which was not pain, and not sickness, but seemed more than either, crept over him like a mist, pierced through and through him like a sword.
Yet, amidst all, he could still think, and he did. Perhaps it was because he was so weak and weary, that there dropped from him silently in that hour much that he was used to cherish. He thought not now of the holy saints, of St. Peter, St. Anne, St. Joseph, of his own revered patron St. Austen; no, nor even of that sweet ideal, the half divine Madonna, so mixed with memories of mother-love, and of his dear English home. All these melted into a radiant mist, and vanished from him wholly. Only one Form stood out before him, one Face remained. Stretching forth his hands, and lifting up his eyes, he murmured, ‘Jesus— Master, have mercy upon me!’
‘Jesus, Master!’ Over and over he said the word. ‘Only speak Thou! Tell me what to do. I will obey.’
No answer came to him out of the silence. After long waiting, he cried once more, ‘Jesus, Master, speak to me. Thou knowest I meant to serve Thee.’
Then it seemed to him that a shade passed over the Face. It grew faint, and ever fainter. It was vanishing. He stretched agonized hands to beckon it back—in vain. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, as he closed his eyes wearily, ‘after all, it was dream.’ Yet not all a dream, for a voice came sounding in his ears—an awful voice, ‘“Your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath uttered perverseness—therefore I will not hear.”’
‘He opened his eyes again, and this time he said only, Jesus, Master, forgive!’
Then a calm stole over him, and after the calm, a sudden thrill of rapturous hope. ‘Can this be death?’ he thought, ‘am I dying? Then, indeed, has God delivered me! Then shall I not sin, either in the keeping or in the breaking of my vow, for death looses all bonds. Thank God!—Thank God!—O Death—nay, O Christ, the Deliverer, I commit myself to Thee!’
But the sound of voices in the adjoining room called him back to life, for they were voices he knew. What could bring Dr. Adrian Pernet here? Perhaps to track his footsteps and arrest him. It did not matter now—he was beyond his reach. But with the last touch of earthly longing he longed to know whether Marie Pernet lived or died. So he tried to rise from his bed, or even to call aloud, but was unable.
Nevertheless, his movements were heard distinctly through the thin wooden partition. The priest, alarmed for his safety, got rid of his unwelcome visitors by directing them to the dwelling of the ‘Mother,’ then coming in, admonished him to keep quiet, as the doctor and his pupil were Protestants, and had come straight from Antwerp. But Austen only said, ‘I have no fear. Prithee, father, bring them hither to me. I must speak with them.’
The priest tried to dissuade him, but in vain. Then, reflecting that a Jesuit must have a good reason for anything he did, he went forth to fetch Adrian and Dirk, brought them back, and left him alone with them.
‘I am Austen Wallingford,’ the sick man said calmly. ‘But you need not arrest me—a Greater has done that.’
Adrian Pernet took one step forward. There surged in his heart the strong passion of a righteous man’s indignation against wrong and falsehood. But the next moment stilled it into silence. For he saw the face of Austen Wallingford—and the physician recognized his dread antagonist, while the Christian bowed his soul in the presence of God’s great angel, Death. He stood amazed and awestruck.
It was Dirk, who found words first. ‘He is dying, doctor,’ he said, with an appealing look at Adrian. ‘Can you not help him?’
Then Adrian shook off his amazement and came nearer, all the physician’s instinct of help in his eyes.
‘Let me do what I can for you,’ he said. ‘I see you are very ill. Give me your hand.’ He bent over him to feel his pulse.
But Austen, with a passionate gesture, withdrew the nerveless, feeble hand. ‘No—no—you cannot touch that hand—you! I could not ask it of you.’
There was a moment’s silence; perhaps on Adrian’s part a moment’s prayer. Then he said gravely, ‘I can, as physician, to bring you help—as Christian, to show you I forgive.’
Austen looked up at him, with appealing eyes. ‘‘Twere the best help you could bring to tell me you have not a sister’s death to forgive,’ he said.
‘God has been good to us. Marie lives, and is the happy bride of Edward Wallingford, the cousin whom you wronged.’
‘Thank God! And may He give them prosperous days!’
‘Ay, and I trust He will. But now I would examine you, and see what may be done. For the living there is hope.’
‘What hope for me—should I survive—save to go to Antwerp and take my trial? But that will not be. You remember, perhaps, that evening I swooned when you were reading aloud—even then I think this malady was begun, and much anguish of soul has hastened its work. Oh, I have suffered—suffered! I was not all so hard of heart as I seemed. But necessity was laid upon me to act the part I did. Or, at least, I thought it was.’
‘But now, when death is at hand, you see otherwise, do you not?’ Adrian asked, with deep concern for this human soul, passing to the presence of his God.
‘Yes. I would fain have been a great saint, and, God help me, I am a great sinner!’
Upon the brief silence that followed, Dirk’s deep voice broke suddenly: ‘Oh, Master Wallingford, turn to God and seek for His pardon. It is not too late. —But, doctor, it is you should speak, not I.’
‘He is able to save,’ Adrian said with faltering voice. ‘To save to the uttermost. His blood cleanseth from all sin.’
Austen looked from one to the other. Then he joined his hands feebly, raised his eyes upward, and when he spoke again it was not to them.
‘Blood—yes, blood. Of late I prayed, that if there must be blood upon my raiment, it should be mine alone. Master, I take back that prayer, and pray instead—Let my garments be washed in blood, not mine, but Thine!’
‘Mynheer Doctor,’ Dirk whispered presently, in a voice of alarm, ‘shall I fetch water? He is swooning.’
‘No,’ Adrian answered solemnly. ‘This is no swoon.’ He drew nearer, and bent over the dying man.
‘Austen Wallingford,’ he said very gently, ‘canst thou hear that I forgive thee, in the name of all the rest? And I pray God to forgive thee too.’
But Austen Wallingford heard no human voice, nor ever would again. Yet one word more trembled on the dying lips, the Name which has been for ages the bliss of the saint, the hope of the sinner, and the joy of ten thousand times ten thousand hearts—sinning, struggling, suffering, but forgiven and redeemed through Him.
Adrian and Dirk stood beside the dead in solemn silence. As the pallid brow, losing all trace of conflict and agony, took back the look of youth and innocence, Adrian saw again the face of the fair boy who had served him and dwelt beneath his roof in Antwerp. ‘A strange, sad, checkered life,’ he said half aloud. ‘In God’s Hand we leave it, and him.’
The poor old priest came in, and realized what had happened with much dismay, sorrowing most of all because his guest had not received the last Sacraments of the Church. ‘But then, the founder of his worshipful Order, the great Saint Ignatius Loyola, was in like case, for he also departed without the Sacraments,’ so he tried to console himself.
When Adrian and Dirk were alone together again, Adrian said, ‘Austen Wallingford’s must have been a noble nature, ere it was spoiled. Thrice more guilty, to my thinking, are those who played upon his passionate soul, and taught him to call good evil, and evil good. If Austen Wallingford had learned betimes that God is a God of truth and righteousness, he might be standing now by thy martyred father’s side in heaven, Dirk Willemszoon.’