THAT true knight-errant of his noble craft, Adrian Pernet, passed all this time in the physician’s mortal strife with death. Two lives hung upon the conflict. At the Prinsen-hof he was but one of several champions, and not the foremost; yet it goes far to win any fight if each feels as though the victory depended on his single arm. At home, Marie was still tossing in wild fever dreams, still struggling to go forth and save—sometimes the Prince, sometimes Edward Wallingford—or else to denounce Jesuits and conspirators.
Adrian, for that age, was singularly free from superstition. Still, he was haunted by the thought that, of the two lives, one must go. He had not the slightest hesitation as to which he wished to save. His young sister was the last link of the threefold cord that had bound him to life and love, without her he must stand amongst his fellows a solitary man; yet better her death a thousand times than that of him whose life was the life of all. So he prayed day and night, ‘O God, if Thou wilt take one to Thy Church above, let it be the one who can best be spared by Thy Church below!’
It seemed as though his prayer was heard. Day by day the Prince improved, and day by day Marie’s fever heightened.
One day he was sitting by her side, trying to administer the very small amount of nourishment which he thought necessary to sustain her life. Like everyone else, he of course ‘starved fever,’ as well as attacked the enemy with frequent bleedings and blisterings—but he could not quite go the length of starving the patient too. He had just got her to swallow a little milk, when to his surprise she dropped into a doze.
Scarce daring even to lay down the cup, he sat and watched her until the doze deepened into a light and restless, but real sleep, almost the first since the beginning of her illness. His keen eye noted every variation in her look, her color, her breathing. Surely the crimson on the flushed cheek was not quite so deep, the breath not quite so quick and labored! Her soft brown hair had been cut away, and now that the large wild eyes were closed in slumber, the little wasted face looked almost like a child’s. Poor little Marie! How good it would be of God if He let him keep her with him after all!
Presently the door was pushed open quickly, and Dirk’s face appeared. Adrian started up in sudden wrath at the disturbance. That Dirk should be so careless—Dirk! Just when everything depended on the most absolute quiet! Lifting up a warning finger, and treading softly, he came out.
‘She is sleeping,’ he said.
Dirk only gasped— ‘You are wanted—The Prince—A change!’
‘A change!’ Oh, word of terror, through how many watching hearts has it sent a sword! ‘I thought of no change but one,’ Adrian confessed afterward. At the time he only said, ‘Look to Marie; above all things keep he quiet. Send for Hasselaer if you want anything,’ and rushed out of the house.
Dirk sat down in his abandoned chair. The young soldier knew his task, and meant with God’s help to do it. For the Prince he could do nothing, save by prayer. But while Adrian served the Prince, he must serve Adrian in his sister. Dirk was born with that special gift for nursing which belongs by no means exclusively to women. As the day wore on, and Adrian did not return, he took all responsibility on himself, and Dame Catherine, Neeltje, and the other women in the house were more than willing he should. Meanwhile he held his own heart down to silence with the thought, ‘If the worst were come, there would be a cry in the street no living thing could fail to hear.’
Through the day conflicting rumors reached them, but after nightfall came a line from Adrian, penciled on a leaf torn from his note-book: ‘Violent hæmorrhage from the veins in the throat. No means of stopping it, permanently. He is perfectly conscious, and quite calm. Has kissed his children, and bidden them “Good-night forever,” saying, “It is all over with me now.” Madame la Princesse never leaves him— God gives her strength. I write from a house full of breaking hearts. Pray!’
A night followed of almost intolerable anxiety, and no joy came in the morning. The only alleviation was Marie’s greater quietness, and her disposition to fall into light, brokers slumber.
Messages from the Prinsen-hof were frequent, but of mournful import. In spite of all the remedies that could be devised, the hæmorrhage returned again and again. ‘From the situation of the wound,’ Adrian wrote, it follows that if we apply a bandage tightly enough to stop the hæmorrhage, we strangle the patient: The Prince was growing hourly weaker.
The city meanwhile was in universal mourning, ‘sitting in sackcloth and ashes,’ as her historian says. It seemed as if every house in it was a house of death.
This second sad day was wearing to a close, when Dirk and the women began to fear that Marie was sinking. It seemed the greater quietness meant that. Dirk sent for Dr. Hasselaer, and was standing at a front window watching for his coming, when he saw a boy and a man approach the door from opposite directions. He ran and opened it. The boy was a page from the Prinsen-hof; the man wore the livery of the Town Guard, and carried a staff. Dirk seized the note the boy held out to him, and tore it open. This was what he read:— ‘A plan has been suggested which affords a ray of hope. Pray on still.’
‘What news, sir?’ the Town Guard asked, before doing his own errand—the women also came running to the door. Dirk read the words aloud, and all thanked God and took courage, even from such slender hope. Then said the man in office, turning to Dirk, ‘Are you Dirk Willemszoon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I am to bring you back with me to the city prison. The person calling himself Edward Wallingford, for whose apprehension a reward was offered, has just been taken at one of the gates. He is braving the matter out, it seems. He asked at first, and with an air of the greatest assurance, for Dr. Adrian Pernet, and when told he could by no means see him at present, then he asked for you, and that most earnestly.’
Dirk hesitated. Marie, he greatly feared, was dying; should he leave his watch beside her at the bidding of such a consummate villain as Austen Wallingford? But, on the other hand, ought he to refuse? Might not this man have important revelations to make? And even if there was nothing to be gained, did not Christian charity require him to grant so simple a prayer, and all the rather because it was the prayer of an enemy? When the doctor came, there would be no risk at all in leaving Marie in his care, and in that of the women. At last he said to the Town Guard, ‘I can’t leave this until the doctor comes; but I expect him every moment, and as soon as I have spoken to him I will follow thee to the prison.’
In less than an hour he was on his way thither, but with a heavy heart, for Hasselaer had expressed the worst opinion of Marie—indeed, he doubted that she would last until the next morning.
Dirk, when he arrived, was taken in charge by a warder, and ushered in due time into a strong room, where he was left, and the door bolted behind him. By the light of a lamp hanging from the ceiling, he saw a tall man in a cloak, who sprang forward as if he would embrace him, with the eager cry, ‘Dirk, my dear lad!’
Dirk drew back scowling. This was too much.
‘Spy and traitor!’ he began, but checked himself. ‘More I would say, only one must not revile a helpless man. Dost know thou hast killed Juffrouw Marie with thy villainy?’
‘Killed Marie!’ The prisoner flung up his arms with a cry of unutterable agony. ‘Killed Marie! Dirk, Dirk—do not tell me she is dead!’
‘Not dead yet, but—God help us all, what does this mean?’
For now the lamplight was falling full upon the agonized face of the man, revealing every line and feature. He stood in his bewildered, incredulous anguish, gazing at Dirk, all his soul in his eyes—and they were the very eyes that met his first on the ship of the Sea Beggars, eight years ago.
There was the old ring in his voice, changed and saddened though it was, as he said, ‘All through these long weary years I waited for this day. Amongst the faces I thirsted most to see, thine came to me often, Dirk. I little thought this would be thy welcome to me. Yet will I forgive thee if thou wilt unsay those cruel words!’
‘Master Edward Wallingford, is it you—you indeed—given back to us from the dead?’
‘Canst not remember my face? Dost not see the mar on my brow? God help me!—Is all this a horrible dream, or are you dreaming, all of you? It was in vain I told my name, my story, my purpose, to the Watch at the gate. Instead of listening, they seized me, and dragged me here with rough words, which I could not comprehend. But I understood them to say that the Prince was dying, and that I—I—was somehow to blame for it! I entreated them at least to tell me how he fared, for I had thought him dead— and one, a little less rude than the rest, gave me news of him, mentioning Dr. Adrian Pernet with others, as in attendance on him. I thought I had but to send for him, or for thee—who I guessed would be found where he was—to make all right in a moment. And then—but tell me of Marie, I implore of thee!’
‘She lies in fever ever since—oh, Master Wallingford, how shall I make you understand?—since he who took your name, your place, your rights, had his villainy exposed.’
‘He who took my name? What mean you?’
‘Juffrouw Marie had it from his own lips that he was Austen Wallingford, your cousin. There was strong likeness between you, and he took advantage of it. He deceived every one—’
‘The traitor! He was capable of that! When I trusted him, gave him my message and my scarf! But Dirk, he did not deceive every one? Not Marie?’
‘I think it was supposed you had been given some potion, which made you different from what you used to be,’ Dirk said, with hesitation. ‘Still, Juffrouw Marie discovered the truth. But the traitor withheld her from revealing it, with the threat that if he was arrested, you should be given up to the Inquisition.’
‘How she must have suffered! God help her and me! But it is intolerable! Austen—Austen—if I live, thou shalt cross swords with me for this! False friend and lying kinsman, woe is me that I placed faith in thee! Yet, before all things, tell me of Marie. Is there hope?’
‘Yes, while life remains,’ Dirk’s low sad voice made answer. ‘But I cannot hide from you that I fear she is sinking.’
‘I must go to her at once! cried Edward starting up. Then, recollecting himself, he sank down again with a groan of anguish. God help me! I am a prisoner.’ After a pause he burst out fiercely, ‘But I must—I must! No one in the world would keep me from her now, when she is dying. No, not even Inquisitors, or Jesuits.’
Dirk stood looking at him with intense sadness, but said nothing.
‘Don’t you see I must go to her?’ Edward pursued, with piteous entreaty in his voice, and in his blue English eyes.
‘To-morrow you will be set free,’ Dirk said. ‘The magistrates will recognize the mistake, and—’
‘Don’t talk to me of to-morrow!’ Edward interrupted passionately. ‘It will be too late—too late! After being kept away from her six long years by cruel imprisonment, I come back to find her dying, and to be held from seeing her living face again, and shut up within a mile of her, by these blundering fools! It is maddening!’
Dirk felt it was. What could he find to say?
‘Would I had stayed in my prison and died there!’ Wallingford cried in his despair.
‘I will go to the Burgomaster at once, this very minute!’ Dirk exclaimed.
‘What use? At this hour?’ Wallingford murmured, in a dreary, hopeless voice.
‘Even at this hour there will be few sleepers amongst the city magistrates this night, with the Prince as he is,’ Dirk said.
‘There will not be amongst them one who would listen to your tale.’
Dirk felt sorrowfully that this was true. Even the torrent of amazement that had swept over him could not dull the aching of heart with which he listened, ever and anon, for any sounds from without. So long as there was silence, the worst could not have come yet. But in any case it was too certain there would be no ordinary business done that night, and too probable that none would be done the next day.
‘I fear you are right,’ he acknowledged sadly. ‘Dear Master Wallingford, you must trust God a little longer, as you have trusted Him all these years. He who was with you then will not forsake you now.’
There was a long pause. At last Wallingford spoke again, though in a faint, weary voice: ‘All these years—He was with me—not to fail me now. Dirk, thou sayest well. Though He slay me—’
‘But He will not!’ Dirk cried, bounding to his feet, his dark eyes shining with the glory of a sudden inspiration. He tore off his cloak, flung off his broad-leaved felt hat:— ‘Put them on, Mynheer, and the stupid warders will never see the difference in the dark.’
Wallingford stared at him, uncomprehending.
‘Quick, quick, Mynheer!’ he went on. ‘I told the fellow to come back in half an hour. I will wrap myself in your cloak, and sit down in yonder corner, where no light falls from the lamp. Pull my cloak up well about your ears, so as to hide your beard, and draw the hat down over your face. No one would dream of my favoring your escape; folk would think me far more likely to kill you.’
‘But, dear boy, the danger to you?’
Dirk laughed, which was more than he had done since the 18th of March. ‘Danger to me? What danger? As soon as the matter can be properly looked into, I shall be set free. As you would, if you could afford to wait. Only, you cannot and I can.—For,’ said Dirk in his heart, ‘it is not Juffrouw Roskĕ who lies there dying. Who can tell,’ he added aloud, ‘whether your coming may not save her, even yet? But take care how you make yourself known to her. Ask Dr. Hasselaer what to do. He was to stay until my return, or her brother’s. Come, Mynheer—quick—on with these things! I am thinking every moment I hear the warder’s step.’
There was a struggle in the heart of Edward. But it could only have one end. ‘For Marie’s sake!’ he said presently, and, flinging off his own cloak, put Dirk’s on.
‘When you leave the prison turn to the left, then to the right, then to the left again,’ Dirk said. ‘Dr. Pernet’s is the corner house of the Place aux Gants, nearest to the cathedral.’
‘What if they will not admit me?’
‘Oh, they will!’ But a moment’s reflection showed Dirk there was room to doubt it. He had with him the scrap of paper on which Adrian had written what would now be called his ‘bulletin,’ and a bit of charcoal, with which he used to mark the hours when Marie should have her medicine. He wrote hastily:
‘It is Mynheer Edward Wallingford himself, come borne at last. Witness my hand.—DIRK WILLEMSZOON.’
‘Show that to Dr. Adrian, or Dr. Hasselaer, or Dame Catherine,’ he said. ‘I hear the warder coming. Yes, you look all right. But—Mynheer—a while agone I refused your embrace. I ask it now.’
He had it. ‘God bless thee, my brother!’ faltered Edward.
‘Remember thine own words to me,’ Dirk said. ‘“Our light affliction—but for a moment.”’
Even as he spoke, the key was turning in the door.
There was barely time for Dirk to ensconce himself in his dark corner, and take on the appearance of a huddled heap of remorseful misery, ere the warder entered.
‘I am sure you have had quite enough of you rogue’s society,’ said he, in a sympathizing tone, to the false Dirk, as he lighted him out. Edward did not dare to answer, nor yet to ask for tidings from the Prinsen-hof, lest his voice should betray him.
Dirk listened and waited long, and with much anxiety.
But at last he gathered that all was safe. His plan had succeeded. He had been fairly confident that it would—on account of the dim light, the pre-occupation of every mind, and the utter unexpectedness of any such attempt.
He had done all this to gain one day—two or three day, at the most—for Edward Wallingford. But then, there are days which are worth years—worth all the rest of life even. If Marie should not see the morning light, if she should not survive the next day, was the price too great to pay that Edward Wallingford might kiss her living lips again?
Dirk knew he ran a risk, which he had been very careful not to hint to Wallingford. Should the thing which they feared come upon them all, there might be popular tumults, in which the prison was very likely to be broken open, and a man suspected of a share in the great crime would receive short shrift. Yet, as Dirk thought of the possibility, he smiled.
‘I shall only follow the Prince where he will have gone,’ he said; ‘my father is there already, and Juffrouw Roskĕ, Better, it seems to me, there than here, where the wicked triumph, and slay the good.
‘Yet this, too, is God’s world,’ he thought again. ‘The Prince is His soldier, standing at his post until He calls. I wait the same call. Said I not, just now, there are days which are worth years, or centuries? Of such, methinks, are these days of standing and withstanding—these days of our light affliction—since they work out for us glory—a weight of glory—an eternal glory. There is more, but I stop there, too weak to grasp it all. Father, father!— You have been in it for ten long years almost, do you know it all yet? Will the Prince know it, and Juffrouw Marie, ere to-morrow’s sun sets?’
The Prince was not to know so soon. He was sent back to the battle-field. The tide which was bearing his life away was stayed, just in time. By what means is still, amongst historians, a matter of dispute. The popular story is, that one of the physicians suggested the gentle pressure of the thumb of an attendant upon the wound, to be relieved by others until the healing power of Nature had time to act. The suggestion has been ascribed to Botelli, Physician to the Duke of Anjou. This may, or may not, have been true. Adrian Pernet kept his own counsel on the subject; but there was secret gladness in his heart, all the greater and more precious because no man knew it, or would ever know it, as he thought.