‘Yes Juffrouw, you may: indeed, I pray of you so to do.’ Adrian had gone forth wearing the older of the two fur trimmed robes his modest wardrobe contained, as the newer and more handsome one (the Cardinal’s girt) was disfigured by a conspicuous rent in the hanging sleeve, besides several Rose, needle in hand, stood beside Betteken, somewhat timidly proffering her services to repair it.
‘You will do it better than I, with your young eyes and fingers,’ the old woman acquiesced. ‘Albeit my father was tailor, and a good one; and long ere I had your years I used to sew for him.’
Rose sat down, and bent over the work with all diligence.
Her sense of the robe of Monsieur Adrian blended with a thrill of joy at being allowed to do anything— even such a little thing—for the great, wise, learned doctor, so brave and so generous, who had risked his own to save her father’s, and was now so kindly sheltering them both. She could appreciate, certainly better than Betteken, perhaps better even than her father, the daily sacrifice of personal ease and comfort it cost him. He rarely spoke to her, or she to him (perhaps he had reasons for his reticence she could not guess), but if he only said ‘Good morning’ or ‘Good night’ in passing, her heart would throb with shy pleasure, though she could only make him the barest and briefest answer. Her veneration for him was like his own for science, purely impersonal. It never occurred to her that he could think more of her feelings, if he happened to know them, than of the like on the part of Betteken. Betteken, however, had not the like feelings at all; as she showed plainly by the words she said to Rose while they sat together sewing.
‘The good Book says, Juffrouw, that “it is more blessed to give than to receive,” wherefore it cannot but be irksome to us, and especially to thy father—though he lives too much in heaven to say so—to receive all we do from this Doctor Adrian, and to give him nothing again save little services such as these.’
‘But may we not like Him to have the greater blessing?’ Rose asked gently.
‘Perhaps we might, if he were a brother in the Lord, one of the little flock to whom He gives the kingdom. But even an ignorant woman such as I cannot but see that he has neither part nor lot in the matter.’
Rose’s cheek flushed. ‘He is a good man,’ she said quickly.
‘I fear he is one of Noah’s carpenters,’ Betteken answered. ‘They helped to build the ark; but they never got into it themselves, as your father said in one of his sermons.’
“Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these,” Rose whispered.
‘Well, child; he is not beyond the reach of prayer. Thy father prays much for him; and even I—in my poor foolish words, which the good Lord understands as no one else could. And at least I can mend his clothes, and take care of his money for him, poor half-witted body that he is, with oil his queer learning. I think, but for us, he would be now in rags, and belike in debt also. Wouldest believe it, Juffrouw, he managed to get through more money, by himself alone, than keeps the four of us in comfort now? What he did with it, Heaven knows. No doubt he bought books, and physic bottles, and dead men’s bones—like that horror in the next room I cannot bear to think of even yet. Still I warrant me the beggars at the church doors and in the Place could tell a story, an’ if they would. I think he never said “No” in his life; and he would not know whether he was giving away good silver florins or brass tokens, God help him!’
‘Do you know, Betteken, he and my father sometimes talk now—for quite a long time together?’
‘It cheers thy father to talk with a man. Hark! Do you hear his voice even now with something of the old sound in it as he talks to Master Junius?’
In Adrian’s absence, though not without his permission, a friend had been admitted to see the sick man. He came disguised as a merchant’s clerk, but he was really a pastor; no other than the celebrated Franciscus Junius, just returned from a mission to Brussels, which has become historical. He had lunch to tell his lonely, secluded brother. So their talk was prolonged and eager. But at last the continuous sound of one solemn voice, in place of two rapidly changing ones, told that the older and feebler soldier of Christ was giving thanks to the Great Captain for his young and dauntless comrade, who had come back in safety from a difficult and perilous enterprise.
Rose and Betteken lowered their voices in sympathy. Almost in a whisper, yet with a slightly aggressive air, as if challenging contradiction, Rose observed ‘My father’s voice changed scarcely at all.’
‘Only weaker.’
‘Oh, but he is not weaker, nor worse in any way.’
Betteken held her peace; though those sad words so often lightly spoken, especially of the aged, ‘a gradual failing,’ ‘a general breaking up,’ trembled on her lips. She knew with what a sharp pang they stab the loving heart. But Rose persisted, ‘You don’t think he is worse, surely, dear Betteken?’
‘My child, what is it you wish for him? Think of the home and the welcome waiting for him; of the holy angels and the spirits of just men made perfect; above all, of the Master, and the Master’s own “Well done!” How long do you want to keep him from all that, dear heart?’
Rose dropped her work and covered her face.
The old woman laid her worn hand tenderly on the bowed head of the girl. ‘Be comforted,’ she said, ‘God is not saving just yet, “Give him up to Me.” When He does, He will make you willing—trust one for whom He has done it these many times. Only I would not have you quite unprepared. For it must come to that, dear little one. What else?’
‘Martyrdom, perhaps, for all of us,’ Rose faltered. She was only seventeen; but we are told that in those days even the little children of the Huguenots ‘instead of playing, talked together of martyrdom.’
‘Which looks far less likely now than it did a while ago,’ said Betteken. ‘But hearken, the prayer is over. We must pay our respects to M. Junius as he passes out.’
They did so, and the brilliant, gifted young pastor gave them his blessing. He it was who on one occasion had preached to a congregation of the faithful, while the burning of several of their brethren was taking place in the Square outside, the light of the pile flashing in through the windows of the room. From amongst the rank and fila of the heroic army of Reformation missionary martyrs, he stands out before us, a noble, well-defined, memorable figure.
Soon after his departure, Adrian came in with a large book under his arm, and looking rather disturbed. He went at once into the inner room, where Rose and Betteken were with Marchemont. ‘I cannot think what the masters of the guilds are about, not to keep better order among their craftsman,’ he said. ‘Nowadays the streets are always full of idle follows, who shout after quiet people and call them ill names. How they have got hold of my surname I know not, but I am pestered by the beggars at the church doors, and all the ragged street urchins crying after me, “There goes the old Cardinal’s cousin,” with other civilities of the kind.’
Betteken knew nothing about the betrayal of his surname—that was probably due to the indiscretion of his landlord; but she could have made a shrewd guess at the secret of the beggars’ ill-will. Of late she had taken care that, when he went out, his pockets should only contain a limited supply of small brass or copper coins. But she merely said, ‘Mynheer forgets this is a holiday, so there be many idle folk about.’
‘I did forget it, but it was brought to my mind when I came to M. Plantin’s house, and found the shop shut up. But, at my knocking, he kindly opened to me himself, and gave me what I wanted—this book, which I think you may be glad to have, M. de Marchemont.’
It was a fine edition of the Latin Bible, which Plantin had recently printed. The sick man’s eyes shone with pleasure, and he stretched out his hand for the precious volume with the eagerness of one dying of thirst for a cup of cold water. He had concealed about his person, on the night of his escape, a French Gospel of John, and upon this, and a memory well stored with the words of Scripture, he had been living ever since. To possess the whole Bible again was a joy he had never expected.
‘How can I thank you, M. Adrian?’ he said with emotion. ‘But I fear it must have been very costly.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I found I had forgotten my purse,’ said Adrian innocently. ‘M. Plantin was kind enough to say it could wait until I settled my other account. Besides,’ he added with a flash of that tact which he sometimes displayed unexpectedly, ‘I want it partly for myself. I think I should like to read it now and then, for a change.’