“Thou didst well in that it was in thy heart.”
THREE hundred years ago this world of ours was a great deal larger than it is today. Not, of course, as measured by miles, but very certainly as measured by hours and days. Yet even three hundred years ago the voice of rumor rang out fast and far the story of the danger and deliverance of Geneva; and it was swelled by wrath and horror at the shameless perfidy of the Savoyards and their allies of Spain. These feelings, though naturally strongest in the Protestant communities, were not wholly confined to them: there are certain unwritten international laws necessary to the very existence of civilization, and when these are flagrantly outraged, the common instincts of humanity arise in protest.
But in those days the rumor of great events very far out-ran the full details of them. These last, if they came at all, came lagging after, very slowly; either through the haphazard public posts (where such existed) or, often with better speed, through the hands of merchants, or of private persons traveling for business or pleasure.
When Sir John Musgrave, knight and gentleman of Dorset, heard in his peaceful Manor House the story of the Escalade, it meant the more to him because Robert was in Geneva, but he did not greatly apprehend any danger to Robert himself. All was changed, however, when a belated letter reached his hands at last. It was from Charles Bernard—brief, candid, and to the point. With a contrition which was much more real than his measured words betrayed, Bernard acknowledged his fault in having permitted the boy to go out of the town on that fatal day—told where and how he had been found again, and plainly acknowledged that he was still lying between life and death— the issue in God's hands, and in His alone.
Whereupon Sir John Musgrave did what nine fathers out of ten would do today, but what scarcely one out of ten would, or could, have done then. With a well-filled purse and one trusty attendant, he crossed the Channel in some chance vessel bound for Havre—hired good horses in every town he passed, and thus with ease and what was then considered rapidity, made his way to the city on the shore of Lake Leman. And Robert's heart rejoiced and was glad at the sight of his father's face.
It was his best medicine. The days were restful now, and the nights all too short for sleep. As he grew stronger, his father talked with him, giving him news of home—news indeed of many kinds, domestic and political. The latest news was of the failing health of the Queen, the "great Elizabeth," whom both father and son looked at through a sort of golden haze, a mixture of loyalty and chivalry. Often Sir John read the Bible to his son, either in French or in English; and occasionally, to Robert's great delight, he read also a wonderful new book, "The Faerie Queen," which he had brought with him.
Many friends remembered Sir John Musgrave, who had himself been educated in Geneva, and in later years had brought his son thither. These gathered round him now, and Robert's schoolfellows also paid him visits. Once the venerable Dr. Beza came himself, with words of faith and hope and kindly sympathy; but much to Robert's regret, that was before he was well enough to profit by the visit.
Though his convalescence was a peaceful and happy time, it was not undimmed by sorrowful thoughts. As soon as he thought himself able to go out, he entreated his father's permission to do so.
“Father," said he, "I am quite well now, and there are those I must go and see. I cannot rest till I do.”
“Who are they, Robert?”
“The mother of Jacques Mercier, for one."
"She would come to see you.”
“No, father, I pray you. Is it not right I should wait upon her, not she upon me? She is old, and 3 am young; she is desolate, and I have everything left me.”
“Well said, my son. And who is the other?”
“Demoiselle Theodora Viret. You know her father says she is better, but while the winter lasts she cannot leave the house.”
“There, too," said Sir John, smiling, "I own thou art in the right. It is the gentleman's devoir to wait upon the lady. Though I did not know she was a friend of thine.”
Robert made no answer. In spite of all their close communion, he had never told his father the story of his adventures on the awful night of the Escalade. If asked about them, he would make some brief general answer, and let the subject drop. His father, thinking the remembrance distressed him, respected his wishes, and forbore to press him. This eldest son of his was dear to him as the apple of his eye. He treated him with a thoughtfulness and consideration not usual from parents to children, in those days of stern authority and implicit obedience.
Soon, however, he had to tell him what he feared would be accounted evil tidings. It was with some reluctance that Lady Musgrave had given her consent to the father's plan for his son's education in Geneva. Yet, as a dutiful wife, she had yielded to his wishes. Was it not reasonable then that, as a loving mother, she should plead for his recall, when Geneva proved to be a place where the inhabitants might be murdered in their beds at the dead of night, by a horde of Savoyard and Papist desperadoes? Under the circumstances, Sir John felt himself obliged to give way.
Robert, when he told him, did not say much either for or against. Geneva, and the life there, "liked him well," or as we should say now, he liked them well; but, especially since his illness, his heart yearned for the sight of his mother's face and the sound of his mother's voice; so that on the whole, he was content.
At last, on a sunny morning towards the end of January, father and son went forth together. Robert wore the fur coat which no doubt had saved his life on the night of the Escalade.
As they passed down the street, he looked about him with the keen delight and interest of the convalescent, to whom the common sights and sounds of life come back with the freshness of pleasant novelties. There were not many people about at that hour. It was still early; the men were busy in their shops or workrooms, the women about their household matters. But in passing from the Coratterie into the Place Neuve, they came upon a couple of the Town Guard, who seemed to be forcing along with them, in spite of his resistance by word and deed, a lad in the dress of a Savoyard peasant, a "gray-foot," as the Genevans called them. The citizens were brave men, with hard heads and stout hearts, but it was not many weeks since Savoyards in the dead of night had broken into their town, with murderous intent—was it wonderful they did not welcome their visits? In fact, at that time the city gates were kept shut for the most part, by day as well as by night, and watched by a strong guard. The lad looked angry rather than frightened. He was crying out in his Savoyard patois—" Let me alone, and I'll go with you—only tell me where! I have lawful business. I demand to be taken—" Then suddenly catching sight of Robert Musgrave, he broke away from the men with one mighty wrench, sprang towards him, and threw himself at his feet.
“Oh, M. Robin—M. Robin!" he cried. "It is you And you are alive! Thank God—and all the Saints!”
“Jeannot Boppart!" Robert exclaimed, in almost equal astonishment. "But get up, man. Don't kneel!" Then to the guard, "What are you doing to the lad? Let him go. He's an honest fellow. I know him.”
Sir John knew French perfectly, but not the patois of the Savoyards. At his son's words he interposed, and in the voice of one who expected to be obeyed, “If my son answers for this young man, it ought to be sufficient. What were you going to do to him?”
“Only to thrust him forth out of the town," said the nearest man, capping respectfully to the" egregious "foreigner. (The Genevans used" egregious ' in the sense of "distinguished").
“He must have slipped in through the negligence of someone," added the other. "We want no gray- feet’ here.”
“I have business," the "gray-foot" began, but broke off to kiss the hand Robert extended to him, and to say once more, as if he could scarce believe in the wonder, "You are alive!”
“So it seems, at least," said Robert, with a laugh—checked immediately as he thought of the sad tale Jeannot would have to carry back to Madelon Boppart. Boy-like, he shrank from the thought of telling him.
Sir John spoke gravely. "It were ill-advised, as well as churlish, to thrust out one who comes on plea of business and unarmed, desiring only to be heard. He may have tidings, or information, which would be of service to the town. You should bring him to someone in authority, who will hear his story and deal with him accordingly.”
The men acquiesced. "You are right, monsieur," said one. "We will take him to the Hall. The ' Little Council ' sits this morning. It is early yet; but there will be someone there who can hear what the fellow has to say.”
“I pray you, father, let us come with them," said Robert aside to his father. "I want to hear what he comes for. And—I must speak with him.”
“As thou wilt," returned Sir John, whose own curiosity was excited. "But how dost know the lad?”
“He is the brother of Jacques Mercier's betrothed. And oh, father, it will be hard!" Sir John, of course, knew Mercier's story already, with all the other incidents of the Escalade. "Best not to tell him," he said, "until his own story is told." Then to the others, "Lead on, my men; we will go with you to the Council.”
The "Little Council," or "Council of Twenty-five"—which in ordinary times, under the Presidency of the four Syndics, ruled the city—used to hold its sittings in the noble hall of what had been the Franciscan Monastery. When the party entered it, the Syndics had not yet arrived, but several members of the Council were there. They welcomed Sir John with much respect, and spoke very kindly to Robert, congratulating him on his recovery, and asking if he was quite restored.
He acknowledged their courtesy, and answered, with a proud and happy glance at the tall form beside him, "Quite—and so quickly, thanks to the coming of my father.”
Meanwhile, Sir John, having noticed amongst the Councilors a burgher of the higher class with a grave and sorrowful face, whose name he knew to be Vandel, approached him and asked if he was not the son of the brave old Syndic who had given his life for Geneva on the night of the Escalade.
“No, sir," said Burgher Vandel, "I am only his nephew." Then, pointing to the four stately carved chairs at the upper end of the Hall where the Syndics were wont to sit, he said sadly, "One of those will be empty today.”
“Which was his?" asked Sir John. "One is higher than the others, and it appears to be more elaborately carved.”
“Not that. His was the one next it at this side. That one used in the old times to be the chair of state where the Franciscan Prior sat during the Chapter. It is now the seat of our first Syndic, Master Michel Roset. But your son looks pale. I doubt his strength has not yet returned. You will both please to sit down for a little, Master Roset and our other friends will be glad to greet you ere you go.”
He found them comfortable seats, but they had scarcely sat down when a loud cry, followed by heavy sobs, smote on their ears. One of the members of the Council, at the request of the guards, had spoken to Jeannot and inquired his business; adding, kindly enough, that if he was an honest lad and meant no harm, he had nothing to fear. Thus encouraged, Jeannot ventured to say that he knew a man in the town that would speak for him if they asked him—one Jacques Mercier, a journeyman goldsmith, and also in the city watch. Mercier's story was told him, and the poor country lad, unused to self-control, broke down completely, weeping and sobbing like a child. "My sister!" he wailed, "my poor sister! She will die of grief.”
Robert went to him at once, and tried to comfort him. "You may tell her," he said, “that Jacques Mercier died bravely—nobly. He saved Geneva. Anyone might be proud of such a death. I have often wished myself in his place," he added.
"You, sir!" said Jeannot, his sobs ceasing for the moment. "Why, no man could have done better than you did.”
At this point a member of the Council, who had been sitting a little apart from the rest, rose and joined the group. "Did I hear thee speak of Jacques Mercier?" he asked the Savoyard.
“Yes, master," said the lad, and one of the men added, "He says he knew him, sir. And he is much concerned for him, as you see.”
“I was aware he had friends outside our boundaries." Then to Jeannot, "My poor lad, I was his master. And never had master a more trusted servitor, or a better pupil in his craft. Didst come here to ask news of him? And why?”
“No, Master," said Jeannot, trying to speak calmly to the "Worshipful burgher." “For we never dreamed of harm coming to him. Why should it? I came to ask if aught had been heard of Master Robert here.”
“I understand," said Amblarde, the goldsmith, and master of Mercier. "My—my friend, for he was that, had no secrets from me. He told me the errand the young English gentleman had undertaken for him. And you, knowing what had happened here, you thought he might, in returning to the town, have fallen in with the enemy and come to harm?”
“'Twas not thinking, Master: we knew all about it," said Jeannot, waxing bolder as he saw he was listened to with attention. So he was, and not by Amblarde alone; others in the room were growing silent and turning towards the group, which was also joined by those who came newly in. To most Genevans the patois of the Savoyards was familiar.
“But how couldst thou know?" asked Amblarde.
“This way, Master. A good many of the soldiers—more than we wanted, Heaven knows!—came along. Ay, and forced us too to give them food and drink of the best —and little good may it do them! Their wounded, I think, they left for the most part to die, save and except they were men of note. But some who came to us brought with them a poor young gentleman, an officer, who was wounded sore, and in grievous pain. His servant said he could go no further, or he would die. In fact, they compelled us to take him in. We were loath enough; but what must be, must be. So we had him, and his man too, and we did our best for them.”
“Out of love, of course, being Savoyard and Catholic," put in one of his audience.
“Little love in the business, but no love at all for having our house burned over our heads, which was just what those ill companions would have done if we had said them nay. Not that M. de Saleve was so bad, after all, save when the pain was on him; and his man Josef was well enough, and grew quite friendly with us all. 'Twas thus we heard of M. Robin.”
“Well, and what didst hear of him?” asked more voices than one.
But here came an interruption. It was almost time for the Council. More members entered, amongst them the venerable Michel Roset, who had filled the office of first Syndic without interruption, being re-elected at every vacancy, for two-and-forty years of an honored and useful life. He took his seat in the chair of the Old Franciscan Prior, and laid his baton of office on the table before him. So did the other two Syndics who followed him.
Michel Roset bared his white head in salutation of all present, with a special and friendly recognition of Sir John Musgrave, whom he had known first as a boy in the Academy. Then, replacing his hat, as the custom was, he looked inquiringly at the company gathered around Jeannot. Amblarde briefly explained what was passing, and the Syndic bade the Savoyard proceed with his tale, which he did, carried out of his sorrow, and out of himself, by the miracle of finding all those proud, masterful Genevan burghers listening to him with attention-even hanging on his words. A burgher who sat close to Sir John had noticed the baffled eagerness in his face as he failed to catch the sense of the Savoyard patois, and how it grew to intensity when "M. Robin's" name was mentioned. So he began, in a low voice, to interpret for him.
“Josef—the servant, ye know," said Jeannot, "told us how the soldiers of Captain Brunaulieu's corps, as they came to a halt outside the town, found amongst them a boy who was evidently a Genevan. They seized him, and brought him to the Captain. He said he was an Englishman, which, I suppose, is another kind of heretic—oh, I crave pardon of your Worthinesses—”
“Never mind our Worthinesses, but go on with thy story," said someone.
“The Captain would have had him run through at once. But the holy Friar who was with them—Friar Alexander the Scotchman, they called him—bade spare him, as he might be of use in the town for a guide. 'Twas just then that Josef, who told us the tale, came up, being sent on a message by his lord to the Captain. He saw all the rest. The Friar asked the Captain to let him deal with M. Robin. He told him then what they wanted him to do. But he refused utterly, at first. Then the Friar said they would kill him else. And at that he seemed to consent." There was a moment's pause, and a quiver passed through the group. Sir John Musgrave gave his son a look—not of anger, only of inquiry. The boy, for all answer, smiled in his face.
Jeannot went on, " The band were all around them, silent as mice, though many of them were busy as bees, making ready the scaling ladders, the petards, and what not, which they had brought there swathed in soft tackle, that not a sound might reach the town. They had to have lanterns for their work, however. They heard the talk, but could not understand a word. 'Twas the Friar that told them what passed.
The boy will come with us,' he said. Then they saw Friar Alexander take a white kerchief out of his sleeve, wherewith he tried to gag him. But M. Robin pushed him indignantly away, with a word or two. Friar Alexander looked in his face and laughed. They understood each other only too well. M. Robin meant, as soon as he got into the town, to raise the alarm, and save his friends. Ay, and he would have done it, and died for it too the next minute, with a smile on his lips.”
There was a murmur through the hall, but only one man spoke aloud. It was Sir John Musgrave. "What else could he do?" he asked, with a touch of scorn.
“The Friar told afterward that he put it plainly to the boy, The gag or the sword.' ‘I choose the sword! ‘said M. Robin, and stood before him like a rock. They would have finished him there and then, but Friar Alexander stopped that. He said the lad was English, and, as he judged from his fur coat, a rich man's son. So he proposed they should bind him fast, and in the morning, when they came forth in triumph after sacking the town, they might hold him prisoner till his friends should ransom him. But when the morning came—i' faith, they had other things to think of! 'Twas the ransom of their own lives was the question then, and hard enough to pay it, with nothing but their heels to do it with. But you may guess, my Masters, that when Josef told us all that, our hearts were sore for the poor young gentleman left bound to the tree, and most like discovered by no one from the town till he died of cold and starvation. Especially Madelon, my sister, was full of concern for him, and never ceased to pray that one of us should go and find out the truth. Well, Messieurs de Genève," here Jeannot paused, and shrugged his shoulders expressively," of course we knew that we of Savoy could not expect much of a welcome from your Worthinesses just now. So we were not eager for the job, and put her off as long as we could. But she led us such a life that at last I said I would go. I thought I would inquire at the gate for—for Jacques Mercier, who would answer for me that I meant no harm, and like enough, tell me all I wanted besides. Little guessing— "Here he stopped again, but quickly mastering his emotion, resumed," So I came, albeit I thought it sheer folly, as Master Robin was sure to be dead long ago. But, behold, I saw him walking in the street. And there he sits yonder!”
Every eye followed the outstretched hand of Jeannot as he pointed to Robert Musgrave.
There was a moment's pause. Then Syndic Michel Roset stood up solemnly from his chair of state. "Master Robert Musgrave," he said, his deep voice not untouched with emotion.
With due reverence the boy arose, his pale face mantled with a flush that was half surprise and half bashfulness.
“Master Robert Musgrave," so the Syndic spoke, "you are a brave young man. You have done credit both to the land of your birth and to the city of your adoption. You have shown yourself willing to die for Geneva, and Geneva does not forget. Geneva thanks you. And I promise you, as speaking for her I may do this day, that, when you attain the requisite age, your name shall be enrolled with honor in the list of her citizens. Also, I have the pleasure of congratulating your illustrious father, here present, upon so hopeful and promising a son.”
Robert Musgrave's recollections of what followed seemed to be confused and fragmentary, to judge from all he ever told of it. He said the Syndics shook hands with his father and himself and "said things” to them both; and that then the rest of the Council came about them, and "said things" also. Then he and his father went out, followed by Jeannot, who told him that the master of Mercier had kindly invited him to his house. One of the men who had brought him to the Council Hall had offered to show him the way. Robert asked him to come to him afterward, that they might talk of their friend, and that he might give him, to return to Madelon, the knot of crimson ribbon, the "token" she had sent to her betrothed.
Then he would fain have gone on to pay his intended visits, or at least that to the Virets; but his father, with authority, marched him back to his own chamber—indeed, to tell all the truth, to his own bed. The thought that he, who although he had meant to be faithful, had really done nothing, had received such honor and such praise, uplifted him and exhilarated him at first, so that he seemed to tread on air, and felt as if fatigue and exhaustion were things of which he had no conception. But the reaction came all too quickly. What was it all worth? Did he deserve it all, or any of it? How was it that Jacques Mercier, who really had done so much, got no thanks, and no reward, save the bullet at his heart! Dear Jacques! How gladly would he give the honor and the praise—ay, and even the coveted Genevan citizenship—for one more look at his honest face, one more word from his cheery lips!
These thoughts were followed by a long talk with Jeannot Boppart, which drew still further upon Robert's stock of returning strength, and it was some days before he was able to visit either Theodora Viret, or the mother of Jacques Mercier. Still his father did not think it necessary to postpone their departure from the town. He had important business in England, and moreover, as the weather had taken a mild and favorable turn, he thought the journey on horseback, with the change and variety it would bring, much more likely to restore and invigorate his son than the closer atmosphere of the city.
So at last, on a mild, soft afternoon early in February, father and son set out together for the house of the Virets in the Rue des Chanoines, that Robert might bid them farewell. As was usual at that hour, they found the women sitting at their needlework, and M. Viret came in promptly from the workshop to welcome his visitors. It was known that they had come to take their leave. The two men were soon absorbed in a discussion upon European politics, which turned on the burning question of the hour. Would the Peace of Vervins, then recently concluded, be ruptured by the affair of the Escalade, or would matters be accommodated again?
Robert thought he had a great deal to say to Demoiselle Theodora Viret. But somehow, now he saw her, he could not say a word. Two pictures were graven on his mind—the pale, sweet face on the pillow which he had looked on with awe, thinking he saw there the shadow of death; and then, later, the radiant form he beheld in vision, when the shadow lay heavy on himself, and she seemed to be clothed already in the light beyond it. But she looked like neither as he saw her now, sitting by the window. She was still frail, and the hand that plied the needle (not very diligently) was transparent as a sea-shell. But there was light in her eyes, her lips had regained their coral, and even her cheek showed a tinge of red, for which her visitors perhaps had to answer. It had not been thought necessary to cut off her long golden hair, and it was knotted up now in the sober and decorous Genevan fashion, which happily did not proscribe a modest fastening of blue ribbon. This, if it may be called an ornament, was the only one she wore. Her dress was of plain gray serge; but it was long before that precise shade of gray failed to give a thrill to the heart of Robert whenever he saw it.
Meanwhile he was answering, nearly at random, Dame Viret's courteous inquiries about his recent illness, and his journey to England. She spoke also of the mother of Mercier. Had M. Robert seen her yet?
“Oh, yes," said Robert, "I have seen her. The first time one of the Pastors was with her, so I did not stay. I went again the next day, but she did nothing but weep,” he added, with a keen remembrance of his own embarrassment, and his regret that he had not asked his father to come with him, as he would have known what to say.
“I see her often," said Dame Viret. "She laments sore for her son—so good a son too. The only comfort she craves is a sight of Madelon Boppart, his betrothed, whom he loved. Perhaps we might manage that for her. Who knows?”
“But Madelon is a Catholic," Robert objected.
“Not in heart, I am sure. She must at least be well inclined to the Faith; or he would not have chosen her.”
But Robert's thoughts were not then with the Savoyard girl, they were with the child of Geneva, whose work was lying idly in her lap, her sweet face full of sympathy for the mother and the betrothed of Jacques Mercier. "I have not heard her voice yet," he said to himself, "and I must.”
At last the visitors rose to go. For one moment the "children" stood together, the brown head a little higher than the golden, for the year between them in age. Both were well grown, even tall, she for her fourteen, he for his fifteen years.
The girl spoke first. "Master Robert," she said, stretching out her hand to him, "we have all been thanking God, first for your deliverance from the Savoyards, afterward for your recovery.”
Then Robert began to find himself. "And I," he said, faltering, but growing stronger with every syllable, "I thank God, who has left you with us here. For I thought you were dead. I dreamed I saw you— a bright spirit going up to Heaven. I was glad then, because I thought I was dying too. But I am glad now—that you are alive.”
“And we also thank God," said M. Viret, who had heard the last words, "in that he has delivered from such great dangers a young man of so much promise—”
But his sentence was never finished, for a knock at the outer door, which he well knew, made him hasten to open it and lead in the venerable Dr. Beza, who, notwithstanding his increasing infirmities, had continued his visits to his god-daughter during her convalescence.
When greetings had been exchanged, and he had been comfortably established in the great armchair beside the fire, he said to Sir John Musgrave, “I hear you are going to leave us, and to take with you, to our regret, that fine lad, your son. I would see him ere he goes. "For the dim eyes of age, while easily recognizing Theodora's golden head, had taken no note of the brown one beside it.
“Doctor, he is here present," said Sir John, raising his voice to reach the dulled ear," and he is greatly honored by your recognition and your praise." Then to his son," Robert, come hither and do your reverence to Dr. Beza.”
Robert came forward, bowed low after the fashion of the time, and then stood respectfully before the last survivor of the great Reformers, who have made the sixteenth century ever memorable in the story of the Church and of the world.
“My son, thou hast done well," the old man said, in his trembling voice. "Thou hast been true to thyself, to Geneva, and to God.”
Then Robert found voice to say what his heart had been saying all through, "But, father, I have done nothing.”
"As much as King David, and to him God said, ' Thou hast done well in that it was in thine heart.' While I slept, God saved Geneva, but He called seventeen good men and true—more honored than I—to give their lives for her. Thou wouldst fain have given thine, and made the eighteenth, had not He, who' accepted the will, denied the opportunity. Dost know the reason?”
“Indeed, sir, I do not.”
“Nor I, save in part. This much I know. He wants thy service here, in this world of His, not now in the world above. See thou give it Him, with true heart and ready hand.”
“Wilt bless me for that service, dear father?" asked Robert, and he knelt reverently at the old man's feet.
The blessing was given, but not in the words of the Old Covenant that Robert had heard from the same lips at the bedside of Theodora Viret.
What Beza said now was from the New Covenant—” Now the God of Peace make you perfect in every good work to do His will, working in you that which is well pleasing in His sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.”
The old man's trembling hands that rested on his head, and the solemn words of benediction spoken over him, seemed a fitting close to Robert Musgrave's life in Geneva.
Next day he set out with his father on the homeward journey to Merrie England. Not that they found England particularly merry just then, for "the spacious days of great Elizabeth" were drawing to a close, and the shadows gathering around what was soon to be her death-bed.
Robert's sojourn in Geneva left with him many happy memories, but the two things most deeply imprinted on his heart were the look of Theodora Viret as she thanked God for his deliverance, and the blessing of Doctor Beza.