GILLE DE MARCHEMONT lay on a couch in the outer room. There was now no longer any need for concealment; had any one sought to arrest him, half the town would have risen, and the probable result would have been a bloody conflict in the streets. So willing hands had carried him to the lighter and more airy apartment, where Rose and Betteken would be with him constantly, and his many friends in the town could visit him as often as they pleased.
The warm, bright sunshine of late spring, or early summer, fell on him where he lay, illuming with a kind of glory his white face and his silver hair. These six long months of helplessness did not seem to have changed him much; so thought those who only saw him casually, so thought even Adrian, so, above all, thought Rose. The only one who thought not so was Betteken. She had looked too often, and with eyes quickened by love, in the faces of those whose days are numbered.
It might have been expected that a tranquil joy within him would correspond to the sunshine without. He had expected to die in anguish, either by fire beneath the gaze of thousands, or in the yet more terrible silence of a dungeon at midnight; he had anticipated leaving all he loved exposed to the same deadly peril, the same horrible sufferings. But now he was to die in peace, tended by loving hands, surrounded by dear faces; and, as he hoped, to leave his friends in safety and comfort. All men joined in assuring him that the days of persecution were over. God had ‘made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters were assuaged.’ His wind was the breath of freedom, sent to sweep away the evil things that had brooded over the land for so many weary, bitter years.
In the darkest days, amidst the fiercest sufferings, those who suffered most had rejoiced and given thanks to God. Men ‘took each other’s hands and walked into the fire, women sang a song of triumph while the grave-digger was shoveling the earth over their living faces.’ Nor had any one faced death with a braver and a gladder heart than Gille de Marchemont. How was it then that, in this time of hope and gladness, a deep melancholy filled his heart, and cast its shadow over his face? Was it the gradual unnoticed failure of the springs of life, the exhaustion of those ‘vital spirits’ about which Adrian talked so learnedly and knew so little? Partly, perhaps: yet how many, with far less faith than Marchemont, have been able to say, ‘My flash and my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever’?
But it seemed to Marchemont just now, that the earlier part of that wonderful psalm of Asaph fitted his lips the best. His feet, as he thought, ‘were almost gone’; his ‘steps’ had well-nigh slipped. From the very gate of heaven he had fallen back into the gloom and darkness of earth—earth’s midnight, without a star.
He had just heard from a merchant of France that his only brother was dead. But why grieve so much for that? He would only see him the sooner, for heaven was far nearer to him now than Sedan. His grief, in truth, was not for the brother who had gone before him, much as he loved him, but for the child more dear to Him than aught else, whom he must leave behind. When, twenty years ago, he forgot the great apostle’s counsel of expediency so far as to join another life with his, this true brother had said to him, ‘Give thyself fearlessly as ever to the work of God; I will take care of what is thine, as though it were mine own.’ He had kept his word. Rose’s mother, for the most part, had lived with him in Sedan, at that time a very ‘Land of Goshen’ to the persecuted Protestants. There she died; leaving her little motherless babe, in full confidence, to care almost as tender as her own. Thus, up to this time, it had cost Marchemont no especial exercise of faith to trust the Scripture promises about ‘fatherless children.’ But one day changed all. In full health and strength Henri de Marchemont had been struck down by what was then called the ‘plague,’ leaving his own children to the care of strangers. What was to become of Rose?
Antwerp, in its present state, was not one of the places in which anyone would like to leave an unbefriended girl. Though Marchemont had many friends, not one among them would be a suitable protector for her. He went over all of them painfully in his mind; from the gifted young pastor Franciscus Junius, who was clearly impossible, to the humble Betteken, who would have the will, but certainly not the means to undertake the charge.
Yet his thoughts soon passed from his personal sorrows and perplexities to what went far deeper. More than life, more than love even, to such souls as his, are ‘the things that life lives for.’ He had lived for the gospel of Christ, its propagation the one work, its triumph the one passionate aim and imaging that filled his days. But was it not triumphing now? Was not the time coming—nay, almost come already— when it might go forth through the length and breadth of the land, and those who loved it dwell in peace, none making them afraid?
Marchemont, like a shipwrecked mariner, had yearned and prayed for daylight, through long, slow, midnight hours. It had come at last, the day had broken; —but only to show him, as it seemed, a barren rock above and a raging sea beneath.
Was the Church to owe her deliverance (if delivered indeed she were) to godless revelers like Brederode and his crew of ‘Beggars,’ or to men of higher stamp indeed, but still ‘men of the world,’ like Egmond, Hoorn, and the Prince of Orange; of whom the two first were staunch Catholics, and the last, in the biblical language Marchemont was accustomed to use, a ‘Gallio, who cared for none of those things,’ or a ‘Laodicean,’ who was ‘neither cold nor hot’? Even this might have been borne, if the Church herself were found worthy of her high vocation, bearing prosperity with meekness, as she had certainly borne adversity with courage. But amongst her nominal adherents some were defying lawful authority, whilst others were splitting already into rival sects—Lutherans, Calvinists, and Anabaptists—denouncing each other almost as bitterly as the Catholics denounced them all. All these had their separate assemblies outside the walls, attended not now by two or three thousand, but often by ten times the number; nor did the zealous preachers who exhorted those dense, impassioned crowds keep always within the bounds of modesty, sobriety, and peaceableness. There were rumours flying from lip to lip of hosts of armed Protestants coming from the neighboring province to the help of their friends, who on their part must be ready to stand by them. But yesterday the Protestants would have been thankful for leave to assemble anywhere without danger to their lives, yet even now they were beginning to murmur at having to go out of town for their assemblies, and threats of the forcible seizure of one or more of the city churches were being whispered amongst them. Had these been executed, a bloody conflict must have ensued. The authorities would have been paralyzed between conflicting duties and conflicting fears: afraid to yield to the Protestants because of the Government, and equally afraid to oppose them because of their immense and growing strength. The town guard was powerless to withstand them, and the guild militias were mostly on their side. Even as it was, the town was into confusion; a sense of impending danger brooded over it, men’s hearts failing them for fear, or else excited with wild hopes and visionary projects. There was always noise, and shouting, and uproar in the streets.
Bitterly did Marchemont feel his helplessness. If he could only have gone forth amongst the people who, in days gone by, had listened gladly to his voice, how would he have delivered his soul, pouring forth in burning words the burden that lay upon it; —how would he have implored his friends— for God’s sake, for their own, for that of their unborn children—in this crisis of their fate to ‘quit themselves like men,’ to be sober, to watch unto prayer, to give no occasion to the enemy to speak reproachfully!
But the hand of the Lord was upon him, His chastening hand. He was not worthy to speak for Him— no, nor yet to die for Him. His work was done, or rather it was not done, it had failed. Who was he, to think that, even if he came amongst his people again, as one risen from the dead, his weak words would prevail with them? He, to persuade tumultuous assemblies, when he could not, after eight months’ earnest striving, even win one man for the gospel? Adrian Perrenot was still unpersuaded. How had he pleaded with God to give him this one, this last soul for his hire! But God had not heard him, God was silent towards him. This was to him a new, and strange, and terrible experience. He reached out his hand into the darkness, and felt it touched by no answering hand. ‘O God, my God, where art Thou?’ he cried in his agony.
Then he lay silent—silent even from prayer, conscious only of the dumb, dull aching of a heart whose dearest hopes have failed. But he was very weak, weaker than he knew; and his worn nerves and frame could not long sustain the strain put upon them. The night before he had been unusually restless and slept little, and now he dropped unawares into an uneasy, broken slumber.
‘The Prince is coming! all will be well now!’ These were the words that roused him. He looked up, and saw bending over him the sweet face of his child, bright with hope and gladness; and into his own dim eyes and wasted features there flashed an answering light.
‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘the Prince is coming. Yes, He that shall come, will come—He whose right it is. And the armies that are in heaven follow Him on white horses.’
Adrian had come in with Rose, and stood behind her. He heard the words, and an anxious look passed across his face. Evidently Marchemont’s mind was wandering. ‘You have startled him, mademoiselle,’ he said to Rose. ‘Wait until he is fully awake.’ Then, coming forward and speaking very slowly and quietly: ‘M. de Marchemont, the tidings your daughter has brought are indeed very good. The Prince of Orange has granted the earnest prayer of all the friends of law and order in this city, and comes to us tomorrow. He will set all right with as, end this confusion, and prevent the tumults and the bloodshed we so greatly feared.’
But Bloom settled down again over the features of Marchemont. ‘Only that?’ he said; ‘I thought—I dreamed—’
‘What more—what better could befall us?’ Adrian asked cheerfully. ‘It is indeed a thing most strange, the trust that all men place in this man. They believe that he is strong, and that he is just—two things that are, I suppose, the foundation of all else worth having. Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists, Anabaptists—all alike are persuaded both that they must obey him, and that if they do, he will not see them wronged. I do not understand it—but what I see, I see.’
‘Yes,’ said Rose eagerly, ‘we shall all be safe now,’ she added, ‘the city will give him such a welcome as never man got yet.’
Marchemont murmured something about trusting in an arm of flesh. ‘The city welcomed Brederode loudly enough,’ he added sorrowfully.
‘This is quite different,’ Adrian explained. ‘The Prince’s welcome will come from the lips and hearts of half the town, who will go forth unbidden to meet him, and line his road for miles. There are to be no ceremonies, no pageants—he likes them not. But when he approaches, a pistol shot or two will give the signal, and you may trust the throats of the men of Antwerp to do the rest.’
‘You will go forth to meet him amongst the others?’ said Marchemont to Adrian.
‘I think not; I have work to do. But, Mademoiselle Rose, the house of the Venetian merchants stands near the gate by which he is to enter. I have asked my friends to reserve good places in a window for you, and for Betteken, as your attendant; you will have an excellent view—you must go.’
Rose’s heart that day was lighter than its wont. She could not help sharing the relief and the joy of all around, and moreover she felt the thrill of her youth within her.
‘I should like to see the Prince,’ she said, ‘if only you, dear father, were not left alone.’
‘I will bear M. de Marchemont company,’ said Adrian, ‘and you need not be absent long.’
‘Yes—go, my child,’ Marchemont said.
That evening, and the night that followed, passed as usual, to all outward appearance. But a sense of suppressed excitement and anticipation, deep though silent, brooded over the town, and reached even the quiet dwelling in the Place aux Gants. Yet, after a wakeful interval more or less prolonged, all slept save one, and he was wrapped in a stillness more profound than sleep. For his soul was lying hushed and bare before the Face of the Eternal, ‘the Manifest in secrecy,’ whose Presence overshadowed him, whose Voice whispered in his ear.