The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (page 15)

“Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee”

She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters.

Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of his boots and his hat before the light streamed in upon him, He then let his cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calm and majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with a loving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physical part of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. She crouched and cowered against the wall.

“Mary,” said he gently; “one word! Are you happy?”

“As happy as I shall be in hell.”

“And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you.”

“For me?”

“Day and night; above all, the Sister Ursula.”

“Poor Ursula!” And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thought of her friend.

“The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth and heaven and save thyself?”

“Ay! would I could; but it is too late.”

“Satan avaunt,” cried the monk sternly. “‘Tis thy favourite temptation; and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, and whispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greater sinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet, e’n in this world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door.”

“How can they ever receive me again?”

“‘Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine for thee. ‘Twas in pity of their tears that I, a Dominican, undertook this task; and broke the rule of my order by entering an inn; and broke it again by donning these lay vestments. But all is well done, and quit for a light penance, if thou wilt let us rescue thy soul from this den of wolves, and bring thee back to thy vows.”

The nun gazed at him with tears in her eyes. “And thou, a Dominican, hast done this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why, the Franciscans and Dominicans hate one another.”

“Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic love one another.”

The recreant nun seemed struck and affected by this answer

Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been that the Virgin should be robbed of her chain. “But see now,” said he, “the convent, and the Virgin too, think ten times more of their poor nun than of golden chains; for they freely trusted their chain to me a stranger, that peradventure the sight of it might touch their lost Mary and remind her of their love,” Finally he showed her with such terrible simplicity the end of her present course, and on the other hand so revived her dormant memories and better feelings, that she kneeled sobbing at his feet, and owned she had never known happiness nor peace since she betrayed her vows; and said she would go back if be would go with her; but alone she dared not, could not: even if she reached the gate she could never enter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her he would go with her as joyfully as the shepherd bears a strayed lamb to the fold.

But when he urged her to go at once, up sprung a crop of those prodigiously petty difficulties that entangle her sex, like silken nets, liker iron cobwebs.

He quietly swept them aside.

“But how can I walk beside thee in this habit?”

“I have brought the gown and cowl of thy holy order. Hide thy bravery with them. And leave thy shoes as I leave these” (pointing to his horseman’s boots).

She collected her jewels and ornaments.

“What are these for?” inquired Clement.

“To present to the convent, father.”

“Their source is too impure.”

“But,” objected the penitent, “it would be a sin to leave them here. They can be sold to feed the poor.”

“Mary, fix thine eye on this crucifix, and trample those devilish baubles beneath thy feet.”

She hesitated; but soon threw them down and trampled on them.

“Now open the window and fling them out on that dunghill. ‘Tis well done. So pass the wages of sin from thy hands, its glittering yoke from thy neck, its pollution from thy soul. Away, daughter of St. Francis, we tarry in this vile place too long.” She followed him.

But they were not clear yet.

At first the landlord was so astounded at seeing a black friar and a grey nun pass through his kitchen from the inside, that he gaped, and muttered, “Why, what mummery is this?” But he soon comprehended the matter, and whipped in between the fugitives and the door. “What ho! Reuben! Carl! Gavin! here is a false friar spiriting away our Janet.”

The men came running in with threatening looks. The friar rushed at them crucifix in hand. “Forbear,” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “She is a holy nun returning to her vows. The hand that touches her cowl or her robe to stay her, it shall wither, his body shall lie unburied, cursed by Rome, and his soul shall roast in eternal fire.” They shrank back as if a flame had met them. “And thou – miserable panderer!”

He did not end the sentence in words, but seized the man by the neck, and strong as a lion in his moments of hot excitement, hurled him furiously from the door and sent him all across the room, pitching head foremost on to the stone floor; then tore the door open and carried the screaming nun out into the road,

“Hush! poor trembler,” he gasped; “they dare not molest thee on the highroad. Away!”

The landlord lay terrified, half stunned, and bleeding; and Mary, though she often looked back apprehensively, saw no more of him.

On the road he bade her observe his impetuosity.

“Hitherto,” said he, we have spoken of thy faults: now for mine. My choler is ungovernable; furious. It is by the grace of God I am not a murderer, I repent the next moment; but a moment too late is all too late. Mary, had the churls laid finger on thee, I should have scattered their brains with my crucifix, Oh, I know myself; go to; and tremble at myself. There lurketh a wild beast beneath this black gown of mine,”

“Alas, father,” said Mary, were you other than you are I had been lost. To take me from that place needed a man wary as a fox; yet bold as a lion,”

Clement reflected. “This much is certain: God chooseth well his fleshly instruments; and with imperfect hearts doeth His perfect work, Glory be to God!”

When they were near the convent Mary suddenly stopped, and seized the friar’s arm, and began to cry. He looked at her kindly, and told her she had nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever spent. He then made her sit down and compose herself till he should return, He entered the convent, and desired to see the abbess.

“My sister, give the glory to God: Mary is at the gate.”

The astonishment and delight of the abbess were unbounded.

She yielded at once to Clement’s earnest request that the road of penitence might be smoothed at first to this unstable wanderer, and after some opposition, she entered heartily into his views as to her actual reception. To give time for their little preparations Clement went slowly back, and seating himself by Mary soothed her; and heard her confession,

“The abbess has granted me that you shall propose your own penance.”

“It shall be none the lighter,” said she,

“I trow not,” said he; “but that is future: to-day is given to joy alone.”

He then led her round the building to the abbess’s postern.

As they went they heard musical instruments and singing,

“‘Tis a feastday,” said Mary; “and I come to mar it,”

“Hardly,” said Clement, smiling; “seeing that you are the queen of the fete.”

“I, father? what mean you?”

“What, Mary, have you never heard that there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons which need no repentance? Now this convent is not heaven; nor the nuns angels; yet are there among then, some angelic spirits; and these sing and exult at thy return. But here methinks comes one of them; for I see her hand trembles at the keyhole.”

The postern was flung open, and in a moment Sister Ursula clung sobbing and kissing round her friend’s neck. The abbess followed more sedately, but little less moved.

Clement bade them farewell. They entreated him to stay; but he told them with much regret he could not. He had already tried his good Brother Jerome’s patience, and must hasten to the river; and perhaps sail for England to-morrow.

So Mary returned to the fold, and Clement strode briskly on towards the Rhine, and England.

This was the man for whom Margaret’s boy lay in wait with her letter.

THE HEARTH

And that letter was one of those simple, touching appeals only her sex can write to those who have used them cruelly, and they love them. She began by telling him of the birth of the little boy, and the comfort he had been to her in all the distress of mind his long and strange silence had caused her. She described the little Gerard minutely, not forgetting the mole on his little finger.

“Know you any one that hath the like on his? If you only saw him you could not choose but be proud of him; all the mothers in the street do envy me; but I the wives; for thou comest not to us. My own Gerard, some say thou art dead. But if thou wert dead, how could I be alive? Others say that thou, whom I love so truly, art false. But this will I believe from no lips but thine. My father loved thee well; and as he lay a-dying he thought he saw thee on a great river, with thy face turned towards thy Margaret, but sore disfigured. Is’t so, perchance? Have cruel men scarred thy sweet face? or hast thou lost one of thy precious limbs? Why, then thou hast the more need of me, and I shall love thee not worse, alas! thinkest thou a woman’s love is light as a man’s? but better, than I did when I shed those few drops from my arm, not worth the tears, thou didst shed for them; mindest thou? ’tis not so very long agone, dear Gerard.”

The letter continued in this strain, and concluded without a word of reproach or doubt as to his faith and affection. Not that she was free from most distressing doubts; but they were not certainties; and to show them might turn the scale, and frighten him away from her with fear of being scolded. And of this letter she made soft Luke the bearer.

So she was not an angel after all.

Luke mingled with the passengers of two boats, and could hear nothing of Gerard Eliassoen. Nor did this surprise him,

He was more surprised when, at the third attempt, a black friar said to him, somewhat severely, “And what would you with him you call Gerard Eliassoen?”

“Why, father, if he is alive I have got a letter for him.”

“Humph!” said Jerome. “I am sorry for it, However, the flesh is weak. Well, my son, he you seek will be here by the next boat, or the next boat after. And if he chooses to answer to that name – After all, I am not the keeper of his conscience.”

“Good father, one plain word, for Heaven’s sake, This Gerard Eliassoen of Tergou – is he alive?”

“Humph! Why, certes, he that went by that name is alive,”

“Well, then, that is settled,” said Luke drily. But the next moment he found it necessary to run out of sight and blubber.

“Oh, why did the Lord make any women?” said he to himself. “I was content with the world till I fell in love. Here his little finger is more to her than my whole body, and he is not dead, And here I have got to give him this.” He looked at the letter and dashed it on the ground. But he picked it up again with a spiteful snatch, and went to the landlord, with tears in his eyes, and begged for work, The landlord declined, said he had his own people.

“Oh, I seek not your money,” said Luke, “I only want some work to keep me from breaking my heart about another man’s lass.”

“Good lad! good lad!” exploded the landlord; and found him lots of barrels to mend – on these terms, And he coopered with fury in the interval of the boats coming down the Rhine.

CHAPTER LXXXIII

THE HEARTH

Waiting an earnest letter seldom leaves the mind in statu quo.

Margaret, in hers, vented her energy and her faith in her dying father’s vision, or illusion; and when this was done, and Luke gone, she wondered at her credulity, and her conscience pricked her about Luke; and Catherine came and scolded her, and she paid the price of false hopes, and elevation of spirits, by falling into deeper despondency. She was found in this state by a staunch friend she had lately made, Joan Ketel. This good woman came in radiant with an idea.

“Margaret, I know the cure for thine ill: the hermit of Gouda a wondrous holy man, Why, he can tell what is coming, when he is in the mood.”

“Ay, I have heard of him,” said Margaret hopelessly. Joan with some difficulty persuaded her to walk out as far as Gouda, and consult the hermit. They took some butter and eggs in a basket, and went to his cave.

What had made the pair such fast friends? Jorian some six weeks ago fell ill of a bowel disease; it began with raging pain; and when this went off, leaving him weak, an awkward symptom succeeded; nothing, either liquid or solid, would stay in his stomach a minute. The doctor said: “He must die if this goes on many hours; therefore boil thou now a chicken with a golden angel in the water, and let him sup that!” Alas! Gilt chicken broth shared the fate of the humbler viands, its predecessors. Then the cure steeped the thumb of St. Sergius in beef broth. Same result. Then Joan ran weeping to Margaret to borrow some linen to make his shroud. “Let me see him,” said Margaret. She came in and felt his pulse. “Ah!” said she, “I doubt they have not gone to the root. Open the window! Art stifling him; now change all his linen.

“Alack, woman, what for? Why foul more linen for a dying man?” objected the mediaeval wife.

“Do as thou art bid,” said Margaret dully, and left the room.

Joan somehow found herself doing as she was bid. Margaret returned with her apron full of a flowering herb. She made a decoction, and took it to the bedside; and before giving it to the patient, took a spoonful herself, and smacked her lips hypocritically. “That is fair,” said he, with a feeble attempt at humour. “Why, ’tis sweet, and now ’tis bitter.” She engaged him in conversation as soon as he had taken it. This bitter-sweet stayed by him. Seeing which she built on it as cards are built: mixed a very little schiedam in the third spoonful, and a little beaten yoke of egg in the seventh. And so with the patience of her sex she coaxed his body out of Death’s grasp; and finally, Nature, being patted on the back, instead of kicked under the bed, set Jorian Ketel on his legs again. But the doctress made them both swear never to tell a soul her guilty deed. “They would put me in prison, away from my child.”

The simple that saved Jorian was called sweet feverfew. She gathered it in his own garden. Her eagle eye had seen it growing out of the window.

Margaret and Joan, then, reached the hermit’s cave, and placed their present on the little platform. Margaret then applied her mouth to the aperture, made for that purpose, and said: “Holy hermit, we bring thee butter and eggs of the best; and I, a poor deserted girl, wife, yet no wife, and mother of the sweetest babe, come to pray thee tell me whether he is quick or dead, true to his vows or false.”

A faint voice issued from the cave: “Trouble me not with the things of earth, but send me a holy friar, I am dying.”

“Alas!” cried Margaret. “Is it e’en so, poor soul? Then let us in to help thee,”

“Saints forbid! Thine is a woman’s voice. Send me a holy friar.”

They went back as they came. Joan could not help saying, “Are women imps o’ darkness then, that they must not come anigh a dying bed?”

But Margaret was too deeply dejected to say anything. Joan applied rough consolation. But she was not listened to till she said: “And Jorian will speak out ere long; he is just on the boil, He is very grateful to thee, believe it.”

“Seeing is believing,” replied Margaret, with quiet bitterness.

“Not but what he thinks you might have saved him with something more out o’ the common than yon. ‘A man of my inches to be cured wi’ feverfew,’ says he. ‘Why, if there is a sorry herb,’ says he. ‘Why, I was thinking o’ pulling all mine up, says he. I up and told him remedies were none the better for being far-fetched; you and feverfew cured him, when the grand medicines came up faster than they went down. So says I, ‘You may go down on your four bones to feverfew.’ But indeed, he is grateful at bottom; you are all his thought and all his chat. But he sees Gerard’s folk coming around ye, and good friends, and he said only last night – “

“Well?”

“He made me vow not to tell ye.”

“Prithee, tell me.”

“Well, he said: ‘An’ if I tell what little I know, it won’t bring him back, and it will set them all by the ears. I wish I had more headpiece,’ said he; ‘I am sore perplexed. But least said is soonest mended.’ Yon is his favourite word; he comes back to’t from a mile off.”

Margaret shook her head. “Ay, we are wading in deep waters, my poor babe and me.”

It was Saturday night and no Luke.

“Poor Luke!” said Margaret. “It was very good of him to go on such an errand.”

“He is one out of a hundred,” replied Catherine warmly.

“Mother, do you think he would be kind to little Gerard?”

“I am sure he would. So do you be kinder to him when he comes back! Will ye now?”

“Ay,”

THE CLOISTER

Brother Clement, directed by the nuns, avoided a bend in the river, and striding lustily forward, reached a station some miles nearer the coast than that where Luke lay in wait for Gerard Eliassoen. And the next morning he started early, and was in Rotterdam at noon. He made at once for the port, not to keep Jerome waiting.

He observed several monks of his order on the quay; he went to them; but Jerome was not amongst them. He asked one of them whether Jerome had arrived? “Surely, brother, was the reply.

“Prithee, where is he?”

“Where? Why, there!” said the monk, pointing to a ship in full sail. And Clement now noticed that all the monks were looking seaward.

“What, gone without me! Oh, Jerome! Jerome!” cried he, in a voice of anguish. Several of the friars turned round and stared.

“You must be brother Clement,” said one of them at length; and on this they kissed him and greeted him with brotherly warmth, and gave him a letter Jerome had charged them with for him. It was a hasty scrawl. The writer told him coldly a ship was about to sail for England, and he was loth to lose time. He (Clement) might follow if he pleased, but he would do much better to stay behind, and preach to his own country folk. “Give the glory to God, brother; you have a wonderful power over Dutch hearts; but you are no match for those haughty islanders: you are too tender.

“Know thou that on the way I met one, who asked me for thee under the name thou didst bear in the world. Be on thy guard! Let not the world catch thee again by any silken net, And remember, Solitude, Fasting, and Prayer are the sword, spear, and shield of the soul. Farewell.”

Clement was deeply shocked and mortified at this contemptuous desertion, and this cold-blooded missive.

He promised the good monks to sleep at the convent, and to preach wherever the prior should appoint (for Jerome had raised him to the skies as a preacher), and then withdrew abruptly, for he was cut to the quick, and wanted to be alone. He asked himself, was there some incurable fault in him, repulsive to so true a son of Dominic? Or was Jerome himself devoid of that Christian Love which St. Paul had placed above Faith itself? Shipwrecked with him, and saved on the same fragment of the wreck: his pupil, his penitent, his son in the Church, and now for four hundred miles his fellow-traveller in Christ; and to be shaken off like dirt, the first opportunity, with harsh and cold disdain. “Why worldly hearts are no colder nor less trusty than this,” said he. “The only one that ever really loved me lies in a grave hard by. Fly me, fly to England, man born without a heart; I will go and pray over a grave at Sevenbergen.”

Three hours later he passed Peter’s cottage. A troop of noisy children were playing about the door, and the house had been repaired, and a new outhouse added. He turned his head hastily away, not to disturb a picture his memory treasured; and went to the churchyard.

He sought among the tombstones for Margaret’s. He could not find it. He could not believe they had grudged her a tombstone, so searched the churchyard all over again.

“Oh poverty! stern poverty! Poor soul, thou wert like me no one was left that loved thee, when Gerard was gone.”

He went into the church, and after kissing the steps, prayed long and earnestly for the soul of her whose resting-place be could not find.

Coming out of the church he saw a very old man looking over the little churchyard gate. He went towards him, and asked him did he live in the place.

“Four score and twelve years, man and boy. And I come here every day of late, holy father, to take a peep. This is where I look to bide ere long.”

“My son, can you tell me where Margaret lies?”

“Margaret? There’s a many Margarets here.”

“Margaret Brandt. She was daughter to a learned physician.”

“As if I didn’t know that,” said the old man pettishly. “But she doesn’t lie here. Bless you, they left this a longful while ago. Gone in a moment, and the house empty. What, is she dead? Margaret a Peter dead? Now only think on’t. Like enow; like enow, They great towns do terribly disagree wi’ country folk.”

“What great towns, my son?”

“Well, ’twas Rotterdam they went to from here, so I heard tell; or was it Amsterdam? Nay, I trow ’twas Rotterdam? And gone there to die!”

Clement sighed.

“‘Twas not in her face now, that I saw. And I can mostly tell, Alack, there was a blooming young flower to be cut off so soon, and all old weed like me left standing still. Well, well, she was a May rose yon; dear heart, what a winsome smile she had, and-

“God bless thee, my son,” said Clement; “farewell!” and he hurried away.

He reached the convent at sunset, and watched and prayed in the chapel for Jerome and Margaret till it was long past midnight, and his soul had recovered its cold calm.

CHAPTER LXXXIV

THE HEARTH

The next day, Sunday, after mass, was a bustling day at Catherine’s house in the Hoog Straet. The shop was now quite ready, and Cornelis and Sybrandt were to open it next day; their names were above the door; also their sign. a white lamb sucking a gilt sheep. Eli had come, and brought them some more goods from his store to give them a good start. The hearts of the parents glowed at what they were doing, and the pair themselves walked in the garden together, and agreed they were sick of their old life, and it was more pleasant to make money than waste it; they vowed to stick to business like wax. Their mother’s quick and ever watchful ear overheard this resolution through an open window, and she told Eli, The family supper was to include Margaret and her boy, and be a kind of inaugural feast, at which good trade advice was to flow from the elders, and good wine to be drunk to the success of the converts to Commerce from Agriculture in its unremunerative form – wild oats. So Margaret had come over to help her mother-in-law, and also to shake off her own deep languor; and both their faces were as red as the fire. Presently in came Joan with a salad from Jorian’s garden.

“He cut it for you, Margaret; you are all his chat; I shall be jealous. I told him you were to feast to-day. But oh, lass, what a sermon in the new kerk! Preaching? I never heard it till this day.”

“Would I had been there then,” said Margaret; “for I am dried up for want of dew from heaven.”

“Why, he preacheth again this afternoon. But mayhap you are wanted here.”

“Not she,” said Catherine. “Come, away ye go, if y’are minded.”

“Indeed,” said Margaret, “methinks I should not be such a damper at table if I could come to ‘t warm from a good sermon.”

“Then you must be brisk,” observed Joan. “See the folk are wending that way, and as I live, there goes the holy friar. Oh, bless us and save us, Margaret; the hermit! We forgot.” And this active woman bounded out of the house, and ran across the road, and stopped the friar. She returned as quickly. “There, I was bent on seeing him nigh hand,”

“What said he to thee?”

“Says he, ‘My daughter, I will go to him ere sunset, God willing.’ The sweetest voice. But oh, my mistresses, what thin cheeks for a young man, and great eyes, not far from your colour, Margaret.”

“I have a great mind to go hear him,” said Margaret. “But my cap is not very clean, and they will all be there in their snow-white mutches.”

“There, take my handkerchief out of the basket,” said Catherine; “you cannot have the child, I want him for my poor Kate. It is one of her ill days.”

Margaret replied by taking the boy upstairs. She found Kate in bed.

“How art thou, sweetheart? Nay, I need not ask. Thou art in sore pain; thou smilest so, See,’ I have brought thee one thou lovest.”

“Two, by my way of counting,” said Kate, with an angelic smile. She had a spasm at that moment would have made some of us roar like bulls.

“What, in your lap?” said Margaret, answering a gesture of the suffering girl. “Nay, he is too heavy, and thou in such pain.”

“I love him too dear to feel his weight,” was the reply.

Margaret took this opportunity, and made her toilet. “I am for the kerk,” said she, “to hear a beautiful preacher.” Kate sighed. “And a minute ago, Kate, I was all agog to go; that is the way with me this month past; up and down, up and down, like the waves of the Zuyder Zee. I’d as lieve stay aside thee; say the word!”

“Nay,” said Kate, “prithee go; and bring me back every word. Well-a-day that I cannot go myself.” And the tears stood in the patient’s eyes. This decided Margaret, and she kissed Kate, looked under her lashes at the boy, and heaved a little sigh. “I trow I must not,” said she. “I never could kiss him a little; and my father was dead against waking a child by day or night When ’tis thy pleasure to wake, speak thy aunt Kate the two new words thou hast gotten.” And she went out, looking lovingly over her shoulder, and shut the door inaudibly.

“Joan, you will lend me a hand, and peel these?” said Catherine.

“That I will, dame.” And the cooking proceeded with silent vigour.

“Now, Joan, them which help me cook and serve the meat, they help me eat it; that’s a rule.”

“There’s worse laws in Holland than that. Your will is my pleasure, mistress; for my Luke hath got his supper i’ the air. He is digging to-day by good luck.” (Margaret came down.)

“Eh, woman, yon is an ugly trade. There she has just washed her face and gi’en her hair a turn, and now who is like her? Rotterdam, that for you!” and Catherine snapped her fingers at the capital. “Give us a buss, hussy! Now mind, Eli won’t wait supper for the duke. Wherefore, loiter not after your kerk is over.”

Joan and she both followed her to the door, and stood at it watching her a good way down the street. For among homely housewives going out o’ doors is half an incident. Catherine commented on the launch: “There, Joan, it is almost to me as if I had just started my own daughter for kerk, and stood a looking after: the which I’ve done it manys and manys the times. Joan, lass, she won’t hear a word against our Gerard; and he be alive, he has used her cruel; that is why my bowels yearn for the poor wench. I’m older and wiser than she; and so I’ll wed her to yon simple Luke, and there an end. What’s one grandchild?”

CHAPTER LXXXV

THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH

The sermon had begun when Margaret entered the great church of St. Laurens. It was a huge edifice, far from completed. Churches were not built in a year. The side aisles were roofed, but not the mid aisle nor the chancel; the pillars and arches were pretty perfect, and some of them whitewashed. But only one window in the whole church was glazed; the rest were at present great jagged openings in the outer walls.

But to-day all these uncouth imperfections made the church beautiful. It was a glorious summer afternoon, and the sunshine came broken into marvellous forms through those irregular openings, and played bewitching pranks upon so many broken surfaces.

It streamed through the gaping walls, and clove the dark cool side aisles with rivers of glory, and dazzled and glowed on the white pillars beyond.

And nearly the whole central aisle was chequered with light and shade in broken outlines; the shades seeming cooler and more soothing than ever shade was, and the lights like patches of amber diamond animated with heavenly fire. And above, from west to east the blue sky vaulted the lofty aisle, and seemed quite close.

The sunny caps of the women made a sea of white contrasting exquisitely with that vivid vault of blue.

For the mid aisle, huge as it was, was crammed, yet quite still. The words and the mellow, gentle, earnest voice of the preacher held them mute.

Margaret stood spellbound at the beauty, the devotion, “the great calm,” She got behind a pillar in the north aisle; and there, though she could hardly catch a word, a sweet devotional langour crept over her at the loveliness of the place and the preacher’s musical voice; and balmy oil seemed to trickle over the waves in her heart and smooth them. So she leaned against the pillar with eyes half closed, and all seemed soft and dreamy.

She felt it good to be there.

Presently she saw a lady leave an excellent place opposite to get out of the sun, which was indeed pouring on her head from the window. Margaret went round softly but swiftly; and was fortunate enough to get the place. She was now beside a pillar of the south aisle, and not above fifty feet from the preacher. She was at his side, a little behind him, but could hear every word.

Her attention, however, was soon distracted by the shadow of a man’s head and shoulders bobbing up and down so drolly she had some ado to keep from smiling.

Yet it was nothing essentially droll.

It was the sexton digging.

She found that out in a moment by looking behind her, through the window, to whence the shadow came.

Now as she was looking at Jorian Ketel digging, suddenly a tone of the preacher’s voice fell upon her ear and her mind so distinctly, it seemed literally to strike her, and make her vibrate inside and out.

Her hand went to her bosom, so strange and sudden was the thrill. Then she turned round, and looked at the preacher. His back was turned, and nothing visible but his tonsure. She sighed. That tonsure, being all she saw, contradicted the tone effectually.

Yet she now leaned a little forward with downcast eyes, hoping for that accent again. It did not come. But the whole voice grew strangely upon her. It rose and fell as the preacher warmed; and it seemed to waken faint echoes of a thousand happy memories. She would not look to dispel the melancholy pleasure this voice gave her.

Presently, in the middle of an eloquent period, the preacher stopped.

She almost sighed; a soothing music had ended. Could the sermon be ended already? No; she looked round; the people did not move.

A good many faces seemed now to turn her way.’ She looked behind her sharply. There was nothing there.

Startled countenances near her now eyed the preacher. She followed their looks; and there, in the pulpit, was a face as of a staring corpse. The friar’s eyes, naturally large, and made larger by the thinness of his cheeks, were dilated to supernatural size, and glaring her way out of a bloodless face.

She cringed and turned fearfully round: for she thought there must be some terrible thing near her. No; there was nothing; she was the outside figure of the listening crowd.

At this moment the church fell into commotion, Figures got up all over the building, and craned forward; agitated faces by hundreds gazed from the friar to Margaret, and from Margaret to the friar. The turning to and fro of so many caps made a loud rustle. Then came shrieks of nervous women, and buzzing of men; and Margaret, seeing so many eyes levelled at her, shrank terrified behind the pillar, with one scared, hurried glance at the preacher.

Momentary as that glance was, it caught in that stricken face an expression that made her shiver.

She turned faint, and sat down on a heap of chips the workmen had left, and buried her face in her hands, The sermon went on again. She heard the sound of it; but not the sense. She tried to think, but her mind was in a whirl, Thought would fix itself in no shape but this: that on that prodigy-stricken face she had seen a look stamped. And the recollection of that look now made her quiver from head to foot.

For that look was “RECOGNITION.”

The sermon, after wavering some time, ended in a strain of exalted, nay, feverish eloquence, that went far to make the crowd forget the preacher’s strange pause and ghastly glare. Margaret mingled hastily with the crowd, and went out of the church with them.

They went their ways home. But she turned at the door, and went into the churchyard; to Peter’s grave. Poor as she was, she had given him a slab and a headstone. She sat down on the slab, and kissed it. Then threw her apron over her head that no one might distinguish her by her hair.

“Father,” she said, “thou hast often heard me say I am wading in deep waters; but now I begin to think God only knows the bottom of them. I’ll follow that friar round the world, but I’ll see him at arm’s length. And he shall tell me why he looked towards me like a dead man wakened; and not a soul behind me. Oh, father; you often praised me here: speak a word for me there. For I am wading in deep waters.”

Her father’s tomb commanded a side view of the church door. And on that tomb she sat, with her face covered, waylaying the holy preacher.

CHAPTER LXXXVI

THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH

The cool church chequered with sunbeams and crowned with heavenly purple, soothed and charmed Father Clement, as it did Margaret; and more, it carried his mind direct to the Creator of all good and pure delights. Then his eye fell on the great aisle crammed with his country folk; a thousand snowy caps, filigreed with gold. Many a hundred leagues he had travelled; but seen nothing like them, except snow. In the morning he had thundered; but this sweet afternoon seemed out of tune with threats. His bowels yearned over that multitude; and he must tell them of God’s love: poor souls, they heard almost as little of it from the pulpit then a days as the heathen used. He told them the glad tidings of salvation. The people hung upon his gentle, earnest tongue.

He was not one of those preachers who keep gyrating in the pulpit like the weathercock on the steeple. He moved the hearts of others more than his own body. But on the other hand he did not entirely neglect those who were in bad places. And presently, warm with this theme, that none of all that multitude might miss the joyful tidings of Christ’s love, he turned him towards the south aisle.

And there, in a stream of sunshine from the window, was the radiant face of Margaret Brandt. He gazed at it without emotion. It just benumbed him, soul and body.

But soon the words died in his throat, and he trembled as he glared at it.

There, with her auburn hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like the gloriola of a saint, and her face glowing doubly, with its own beauty, and the sunshine it was set in-stood his dead love.

She was leaning very lightly against a white column. She was listening with tender, downcast lashes.

He had seen her listen so to him a hundred times.

There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left: only a shade riper and more lovely.

He started at her with monstrous eyes and bloodless cheeks.

The people died out of his sight. He heard, as in a dream, a rustling and rising all over the church; but could not take his prodigy-stricken eyes off that face, all life, and bloom, and beauty, and that wondrous auburn hair glistening gloriously in the sun.

He gazed, thinking she must vanish.

She remained,

All in a moment she was looking at him, full.

Her own violet eyes!!

At this he was beside himself, and his lips parted to shriek out her name, when she turned her head swiftly, and soon after vanished, but not without one more glance, which, though rapid as lightning, encountered his, and left her couching and quivering with her mind in a whirl, and him panting and gripping the pulpit convulsively. For this glance of hers, though not recognition,was the startled inquiring, nameless, indescribable look that precedes recognition. He made a mighty effort, and muttered something nobody could understand: then feebly resumed his discourse; and stammered and babbled on a while, till by degrees forcing himself, now she was out of sight, to look on it as a vision from the other world, he rose into a state of unnatural excitement, and concluded in a style of eloquence that electrified the simple; for it bordered on rhapsody.

The sermon ended, he sat down on the pulpit stool, terribly shaken, But presently an idea very characteristic of the time took possession of him, He had sought her grave at Sevenbergen in vain. She had now been permitted to appear to him, and show him that she was buried here; probably hard by that very pillar, where her spirit had showed itself to him.

This idea once adopted soon settled on his mind with all the Certainty of a fact. And he felt he had only to speak to the sexton (whom to his great disgust he had seen working during the sermon), to learn the spot where she was laid,

The church was now quite empty. He came down from the pulpit and stepped through an aperture in the south wall on to the grass, and went up to the sexton. He knew him in a moment. But Jorian never suspected the poor lad, whose life he had saved, in this holy friar. The loss of his shapely beard had wonderfully altered the outline of his face. This had changed him even more than his tonsure, his short hair sprinkled with premature grey, and his cheeks thinned and paled by fasts and vigils.

“My son,” said Friar Clement softly, “if you keep any memory of those whom you lay in the earth, prithee tell me is any Christian buried inside the church, near one of the pillars?”

“Nay, father,” said Jorian, “here in the churchyard lie buried all that buried be. Why?”

“No matter, Prithee tell me then where lieth Margaret Brandt.”

“Margaret Brandt?” And Jorian stared stupidly at the speaker.

“She died about three years ago, and was buried here.”

“Oh, that is another matter,” said Jorian; “that was before my time; the vicar could tell you, likely; if so be she was a gentlewoman, or at the least rich enough to pay him his fee.”

“Alas, my son, she was poor (and paid a heavy penalty for it); but born of decent folk. Her father, Peter, was a learned physician; she came hither from Sevenbergen – to die.”

When Clement had uttered these words his head sunk upon his breast, and he seemed to have no power nor wish to question Jorian more. I doubt even if he knew where he was. He was lost in the past.

Jorian put down his spade, and standing upright in the grave, set his arms akimbo, and said sulkily, “Are you making a fool of me, holy sir, or has some wag been making a fool of you!” And having relieved his mind thus, he proceeded to dig again, with a certain vigour that showed his somewhat irritable temper was ruffled.

Clement gazed at him with a puzzled but gently reproachful eye, for the tone was rude, and the words unintelligible. Good-natured, though crusty, Jorian had not thrown up three spadefuls ere he became ashamed of it himself. “Why, what a base churl am I to speak thus to thee, holy father; and thou a standing there, looking at me like a lamb. Aha! I have it; ’tis Peter Brandt’s grave you would fain see, not Margaret’s. He does lie here; hard by the west door. There; I’ll show you.” And he laid down his spade, and put on his doublet and jerkin to go with the friar.

He did not know there was anybody sitting on Peter’s tomb. Still less that she was watching for this holy friar.

Pietro Vanucci and Andrea did not recognize him without his beard. The fact is, that the beard which has never known a razor grows in a very picturesque and characteristic form, and becomes a feature in the face; so that its removal may in some cases be an effectual disguise.

CHAPTER LXXXVII

While Jorian was putting on his doublet and jerkin to go to Peter’s tomb, his tongue was not idle. “They used to call him a magician out Sevenbergen way. And they do say he gave ’em a touch of his trade at parting; told ’em he saw Margaret’s lad a-coming down Rhine in brave clothes and store o’ money, but his face scarred by foreign glaive, and not altogether so many arms and legs as a went away wi’. But, dear heart, nought came on’t. Margaret is still wearying for her lad; and Peter, he lies as quiet as his neighbours; not but what she hath put a stone slab over him, to keep him where he is: as you shall see.”

He put both hands on the edge of the grave, and was about to raise himself out of it, but the friar laid a trembling hand on his shoulder, and said in a strange whisper –

“How long since died Peter Brandt?”

“About two months, Why?”

“And his daughter buried him, say you?”

“Nay, I buried him, but she paid the fee and reared the stone.”

“Then – but he had just one daughter; Margaret?”

“No more leastways, that he owned to.”

“Then you think Margaret is – is alive?”

“Think? Why, I should be dead else. Riddle me that.”

“Alas, how can I? You love her!”

“No more than reason, being a married man, and father of four more sturdy knaves like myself. Nay, the answer is, she saved my life scarce six weeks agone. Now had she been dead she couldn’t ha’ kept me alive. Bless your heart, I couldn’t keep a thing on my stomach; nor doctors couldn’t make me. My Joan says, “Tis time to buy thee a shroud.’ ‘I dare say, so ’tis,’ says I; but try and borrow one first.’ In comes my lady, this Margaret, which she died three years ago, by your way on’t, opens the windows, makes ’em shift me where I lay, and cures me in the twinkling of a bedpost; but wi’ what? there pinches the shoe; with the scurviest herb, and out of my own garden, too; with sweet feverfew. A herb, quotha, ’tis a weed; leastways it was a weed till it cured me, but now whene’er I pass my hunch I doff bonnet, and says I, ‘fly service t’ye.’ Why, how now, father, you look wondrous pale, and now you are red, and now you are white? Why, what is the matter? What, in Heaven’s name, is the matter?”

“The surprise – the joy – the wonder – the fear,” gasped Clement.

“Why, what is it to thee? Art thou of kin to Margaret Brandt?”

“Nay; but I knew one that loved her well, so well her death nigh killed him, body and soul. And yet thou sayest she lives. And I believe thee.”

Jorian stared, and after a considerable silence said very gravely, “Father, you have asked me many questions, and I have answered them truly; now for our Lady’s sake answer me but two. Did you in very sooth know one who loved this poor lass? Where?”

Clement was on the point of revealing himself, but he remembered Jerome’s letter, and shrank from being called by the name he had borne in the world.

“I knew him in Italy,” said he.

“If you knew him you can tell me his name,” said Jorian cautiously.

“His name was Gerard Eliassoen.”

“Oh, but this is strange. Stay, what made thee say Margaret Brandt was dead?”

“I was with Gerard when a letter came from Margaret Van Eyck. The letter told him she he loved was dead and buried. Let me sit down, for my strength fails me, Foul play! Foul play!”

“Father,” said Jorian,” I thank Heaven for sending thee to me, Ay, sit ye down; ye do look like a ghost; ye fast overmuch to be strong. My mind misgives me; methinks I hold the clue to this riddle, and if I do, there be two knaves in this town whose heads I would fain batter to pieces as I do this mould;” and he clenched his teeth and raised his long spade above his head, and brought it furiously down upon the heap several times. “Foul play? You never said a truer word i’ your life; and if you know where Gerard is now, lose no time, but show him the trap they have laid for him. Mine is but a dull head, but whiles the slow hound puzzles out the scent – go to, And I do think you and I ha’ got hold of two ends o’ one stick, and a main foul one.”

Jorian then, after some of those useless preliminaries men of his class always deal in, came to the point of the story. He had been employed by the burgomaster of Tergou to repair the floor of an upper room in his house, and when it was almost done, Coming suddenly to fetch away his tools, curiosity had been excited by some loud words below, and he had lain down on his stomach, and heard the burgomaster talking about a letter which Cornelis and Sybrandt were minded to convey into the place of one that a certain Hans Memling was taking to Gerard; “and it seems their will was good, but their stomach was small; so to give them courage the old man showed them a drawer full of silver, and if they did the trick they should each put a hand in, and have all the silver they could hold in’t. Well, father,” continued Jorian, “I thought not much on’t at the time, except for the bargain itself, that kept me awake mostly all night. Think on’t! Next morning at peep of day who should I see but my masters Cornelis and Sybrandt come out of their house each with a black eye. ‘Oho,’ says I, ‘what yon Hans hath put his mark on ye; well now I hope that is all you have got for your pains.’ Didn’t they make for the burgomaster’s house? I to my hiding-place.”

At this part of Jorian’s revelation the monk’s nostril dilated, and his restless eye showed the suspense he was in.

“Well, father,” continued Jorian, “the burgomaster brought them into that same room. He had a letter in his hand; but I am no scholar; however, I have got as many eyes in my head as the Pope hath, and I saw the drawer opened, and those two knaves put in each a hand and draw it out full. And, saints in glory, how they tried to hold more, and more, and more o’ yon stuff! And Sybrandt, he had daubed his hand in something sticky, I think ’twas glue, and he made shift to carry one or two pieces away a sticking to the back of his hand, he! he! he! ‘Tis a sin to laugh. So you see luck was on the wrong side as usual; they had done the trick; but how they did it, that, methinks, will never be known till doomsday. Go to, they left their immortal jewels in yon drawer. Well, they got a handful of silver for them; the devil had the worst o’ yon bargain. There, father, that is off my mind; often I longed to tell it some one, but I durst not to the women; or Margaret would not have had a friend left in the world; for those two black-hearted villains are the favourites, ‘Tis always so. Have not the old folk just taken a brave new shop for them in this very town, in the Hoog Straet? There may you see their sign, a gilt sheep and a lambkin; a brace of wolves sucking their dam would be nigher the mark. And there the whole family feast this day; oh, ’tis a fine world. What, not a word, holy father; you sit there like stone, and have not even a curse to bestow on them, the stony-hearted miscreants. What, was it not enough the poor lad was all alone in a strange land; must his own flesh and blood go and lie away the one blessing his enemies had left him? And then think of her pining and pining all these years, and sitting at the window looking adown the street for Gerard! and so constant, so tender, and true: my wife says she is sure no woman ever loved a man truer than she loves the lad those villains have parted from her; and the day never passes but she weeps salt tears for him. And when I think, that, but for those two greedy lying knaves, yon winsome lad, whose life I saved, might be by her side this day the happiest he in Holland; and the sweet lass, that saved my life, might be sitting with her cheek upon her sweetheart’s shoulder, the happiest she in Holland in place of the saddest; oh, I thirst for their blood, the nasty, sneaking, lying, cogging, cowardly, heartless, bowelless – how now?”

The monk started wildly up, livid with fury and despair, and rushed headlong from the place with both hands clenched and raised on high. So terrible was this inarticulate burst of fury, that Jorian’s puny ire died out at sight of it, and he stood looking dismayed after the human tempest he had launched.

While thus absorbed he felt his arm grasped by a small, tremulous hand.

It was Margaret Brandt.

He started; her coming there just then seemed so strange. She had waited long on Peter’s tombstone, but the friar did not come, So she went into the church to see if he was there still. She could not find him.

Presently, going up the south aisle, the gigantic shadow of a friar came rapidly along the floor and part of a pillar, and seemed to pass through her. She was near screaming; but in a moment remembered Jorian’s shadow had come in so from the churchyard; and tried to clamber out the nearest way. She did so, but with some difficulty; and by that time Clement was just disappearing down the street; yet, so expressive at times is the body as well as the face, she could see he was greatly agitated. Jorian and she looked at one another, and at the wild figure of the distant friar.

“Well?” said she to Jorian, trembling.

“Well,” said he, “you startled me. How come you here of all people?”

“Is this a time for idle chat? What said he to you? He has been speaking to you; deny it not.”

“Girl, as I stand here, he asked me whereabout you were buried in this churchyard.”

“Ah!”

“I told him, nowhere, thank Heaven: you were alive and saving other folk from the churchyard.”

“Well?”

“Well, the long and the short is, he knew thy Gerard in Italy; and a letter came saying you were dead; and it broke thy poor lad’s heart. Let me see; who was the letter written by? Oh, by the demoiselle van Eyck. That was his way of it. But I up and told him nay; ’twas neither demoiselle nor dame that penned yon lie, but Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and those foul knaves, Cornelis and Sybrandt; these changed the true letter for one of their own; I told him as how I saw the whole villainy done through a chink; and now, if I have not been and told you!”

“Oh, cruel! cruel! But he lives. The fear of fears is gone. Thank God!”

“Ay, lass; and as for thine enemies, I have given them a dig. For yon friar is friendly to Gerard, and he is gone to Eli’s house, methinks. For I told him where to find Gerard’s enemies and thine, and wow but he will give them their lesson. If ever a man was mad with rage, its yon. He turned black and white, and parted like a stone from a sling. Girl, there was thunder in his eye and silence on his lips. Made me cold a did.”

“Oh, Jorian, what have you done?” cried Margaret. “Quick! quick! help me thither, for the power is gone all out of my body. You know him not as I do. Oh, if you had seen the blow he gave Ghysbrecht; and heard the frightful crash! Come, save him from worse mischief. The water is deep enow; but not bloody yet;come!”

Her accents were so full of agony that Jorian sprang out of the grave and came with her, huddling on his jerkin as he went.

But as they hurried along, he asked her what on earth she meant? “I talk of this friar, and you answer me of Gerard.”

“Man, see you not, this is Gerard!”

“This, Gerard? what mean ye?”

“I mean, yon friar is my boy’s father. I have waited for him long, Jorian. Well, he is come to me at last. And thank God for it. Oh, my poor child! Quicker, Jorian, quicker!”

“Why, thou art mad as he. Stay! By St. Bavon, yon was Gerard’s face; ’twas nought like it; yet somehow – ’twas it. Come on! come on! let me see the end of this.”

“The end? How many of us will live to see that?”

They hurried along in breathless silence, till they reached Hoog Straet.

Then Jorian tried to reassure her. “You are making your own trouble,” said he; who says he has gone thither? more likely to the convent to weep and pray, poor soul. Oh, cursed, cursed villains!”

“Did not you tell him where those villains bide?”

“Ay, that I did,”

“Then quicker, oh, Jorian, quicker. I see the house. Thank God and all the saints, I shall be in time to calm him. I know what I’ll say to him; Heaven forgive me! Poor Catherine; ’tis of her I think: she has been a mother to me.”

The shop was a corner house, with two doors; one in the main street, for customers, and a house-door round the corner.

Margaret and Jorian were now within twenty yards of the shop, when they heard a roar inside, like as of some wild animal, and the friar burst out, white and raging, and went tearing down the street.

Margaret screamed, and sank fainting on Jorian’s arm.

Jorian shouted after him, “Stay, madman, know thy friends.” But he was deaf, and went headlong, shaking his clenched fists high, high in the air.

“Help me in, good Jorian,” moaned Margaret, turning suddenly calm. “Let me know the worst; and die.”

He supported her trembling limbs into the house.

It seemed unnaturally still; not a sound.

Jorian’s own heart beat fast.

A door was before him, unlatched. He pushed it softly with his left hand, and Margaret and he stood on the threshold.

What they saw there you shall soon know.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII

It was supper-time. Eli’s family were collected round the board; Margaret only was missing. To Catherine’s surprise, Eli said he would wait a bit for her.

“Why, I told her you would not wait for the duke,”

“She is not the duke; she is a poor, good lass, that hath waited not minutes, but years, for a graceless son of mine. You can put the meat on the board all the same; then we can fall to, without farther loss o’ time, when she does come.”

The smoking dishes smelt so savoury that Eli gave way. “She will come if we begin,” said he; “they always do, Come, sit ye down, Mistress Joan; y’are not here for a slave, I trow, but a guest. There, I hear a quick step off covers, and fall to.”

The covers were withdrawn, and the knives brandished.

Then burst into the room, not the expected Margaret, but a Dominican friar, livid with rage.

He was at the table in a moment, in front of Cornelis and Sybrandt, threw his tall body over the narrow table, and with two hands hovering above their shrinking heads, like eagles over a quarry, he cursed them by name, soul and body, in this world and the next. It was an age eloquent in curses; and this curse was so full, so minute, so blighting, blasting, withering, and tremendous, that I am afraid to put all the words on paper. “Cursed be the lips,” he shrieked, “which spoke the lie that Margaret was dead; may they rot before the grave, and kiss white-hot iron in hell thereafter; doubly cursed be the hands that changed those letters, and be they struck off by the hangman’s knife, and handle hell fire for ever; thrice accursed be the cruel hearts that did conceive that damned lie, to part true love for ever; may they sicken and wither on earth joyless, loveless, hopeless; and wither to dust before their time; and burn in eternal fire,” He cursed the meat at their mouths and every atom of their bodies, from their hair to the soles of their feet. Then turning from the cowering, shuddering pair, who had almost hid themselves beneath the table, he tore a letter out of his bosom, and flung it down before his father.

“Read that, thou hard old man, that didst imprison thy son, read, and see what monsters thou hast brought into the world, The memory of my wrongs and hers dwell with you all for ever! I will meet you again at the judgment day; on earth ye will never see me more.”

And in a moment, as he had come, so he was gone, leaving them stiff, and cold, and white as statues round the smoking board.

And this was the sight that greeted Margaret’s eyes and Jorian’s – pale figures of men and women petrified around the untasted food, as Eastern poets feigned.

Margaret glanced her eye round, and gasped out, “Oh, joy! all here; no blood hath been shed. Oh, you cruel, cruel men! I thank God he hath not slain you,”

At sight of her Catherine gave an eloquent scream; then turned her head away. But Eli, who had just cast his eye over the false letter, and begun to understand it all, seeing the other victim come in at that very moment with her wrongs reflected in her sweet, pale face, started to his feet in a transport of rage, and shouted, “Stand clear, and let me get at the traitors, I’ll hang for them,” And in a moment he whipped out his short sword, and fell upon them.

“Fly!” screamed Margaret. “Fly!”

They slipped howling under the table, and crawled out the other side.

But ere they could get to the door, the furious old man ran round and intercepted them. Catherine only screamed and wrung her hands; your notables are generally useless at such a time; and blood would certainly have flowed, but Margaret and Jorian seized the fiery old man’s arms, and held them with all their might, whilst the pair got clear of the house; then they let him go; and he went vainly raging after them out into the street.

They were a furlong off, running like hares.

He hacked down the board on which their names were written, and brought it indoors, and flung it into the chimney-place. Catherine was sitting rocking herself with her apron over her head. Joan had run to her husband. Margaret had her arms round Catherine’s neck; and pale and panting, was yet making efforts to comfort her.

But it was not to be done, “Oh, my poor children!” she cried. “Oh, miserable mother! ‘Tis a mercy Kate was ill upstairs. There, I have lived to thank God for that!” she cried, with a fresh burst of sobs. “It would have killed her. He had better have stayed in Italy, as come home to curse his own flesh and blood and set us all by the ears.

“Oh, hold your chat, woman,” cried Eli angrily; “you are still on the side of the ill-doer, You are cheap served; your weakness made the rogues what they are; I was for correcting them in their youth: for sore ills, sharp remedies; but you still sided with their faults, and undermined me, and baffled wise severity. And you, Margaret, leave comforting her that ought rather to comfort you; for what is her hurt to yours? But she never had a grain of justice under her skin; and never will. So come thou to me, that am thy father from this hour.”

This was a command; so she kissed Catherine, and went tottering to him, and he put her on a chair beside him, and she laid her feeble head on his honest breast; but not a tear: it was too deep for that.

“Poor lamb,” said he. After a while – “Come, good folks,” said true Eli, in a broken voice, to Jorian and Joan, “we are in a little trouble, as you see; but that is no reason you should starve. For our Lady’s sake, fall to; and add not to my grief the reputation of a churl. What the dickens!” added he, with a sudden ghastly attempt at stout-heartedness, “the more knaves I have the luck to get shut of, the more my need of true men and women, to help me clear the dish, and cheer mine eye with honest faces about me where else were gaps. Fall to, I do entreat ye.”

Catherine, sobbing, backed his request. Poor, simple, antique, hospitable souls! Jorian, whose appetite, especially since his illness, was very keen, was for acting on this hospitable invitation; but Joan whispered a word in his ear, and he instantly drew back, “Nay, I’ll touch no meat that Holy Church hath cursed.”

“In sooth, I forgot,” said Eli apologetically. “My son, who was reared at my table, hath cursed my victuals. That seems strange. Well, what God wills, man must bow to.”

The supper was flung out into the yard.

Jorian took his wife home, and heavy sadness reigned in Eli’s house that night.

Meantime, where was Clement?

Lying at full length upon the floor of the convent church, with his lips upon the lowest step of the altar, in an indescribable state of terror, misery, penitence, and self-abasement: through all which struggled gleams of joy that Margaret was alive.

Night fell and found him lying there weeping and praying; and morning would have found him there too; but he suddenly remembered that, absorbed in his own wrongs and Margaret’s, he had committed another sin besides intemperate rage. He had neglected a dying man.

He rose instantly, groaning at his accumulated wickedness, and set out to repair the omission. The weather had changed; it was raining hard, and when he got clear of the town, he heard the wolves baying; they were on the foot, But Clement was himself again, or nearly; he thought little of danger or discomfort, having a shameful omission of religious duty to repair: he went stoutly forward through rain and darkness.

And as he went, he often beat his breast, and cried, “MEA CULPA! MEA CULPA!”

CHAPTER LXXXIX

What that sensitive mind, and tender conscience, and loving heart, and religious soul, went through even in a few hours, under a situation so sudden and tremendous, is perhaps beyond the power of words to paint.

Fancy yourself the man; and then put yourself in his place! Were I to write a volume on it, we should have to come to that at last.

I shall relate his next two overt acts. They indicate his state of mind after the first fierce tempest of the soul had subsided. After spending the night with the dying hermit in giving and receiving holy consolations, he set out not for Rotterdam, but for Tergou. He went there to confront his fatal enemy the burgomaster, and by means of that parchment, whose history, by-the-by was itself a romance, to make him disgorge; and give Margaret her own.

Heated and dusty, he stopped at the fountain, and there began to eat his black bread and drink of the water. But in the middle of his frugal meal a female servant came running, and begged him to come and shrive her dying master, He returned the bread to his wallet, and followed her without a word.

She took him – to the Stadthouse.

He drew back with a little shudder when he saw her go in.

But he almost instantly recovered himself, and followed her into the house, and up the stairs. And there in bed, propped up by pillows, lay his deadly enemy, looking already like a corpse.

Clement eyed him a moment from the door, and thought of all the tower, the wood, the letter. Then he said in a low voice, “Pax vobiscum!” He trembled a little while he said it.

The sick man welcomed him as eagerly as his weak state permitted. “Thank Heaven, thou art come in time to absolve me from my sins, father, and pray for my soul, thou and thy brethren.”

“My son,” said Clement, “before absolution cometh confession. In which act there must be no reservation, as thou valuest thy soul’s weal. Bethink thee, therefore, wherein thou hast most offended God and the Church, while I offer up a prayer for wisdom to direct thee.”

Clement then kneeled and prayed; and when he rose from his knees, he said to Ghysbrecht, with apparent calmness, “My son, confess thy sins.”

“Ah, father,” said the sick man, “they are many and great.”

“Great, then, be thy penitence, my son; so shalt thou find God’s mercy great.”

Ghysbrecht put his hands together, and began to confess with every appearance of contrition.

He owned he had eaten meat in mid-Lent. He had often absented himself from mass on the Lord’s day, and saints’ days; and had trifled with other religious observances, which he enumerated with scrupulous fidelity.

When he had done, the friar said quietly, “‘Tis well, my son, These be faults. Now to thy crimes, Thou hadst done better to begin with them.”

“Why, father, what crimes lie to my account if these be none?”

“Am I confessing to thee, or thou to me?” said Clement somewhat severely.

“Forgive me, father! Why, surely, I to you. But I know not what you call crimes.”

“The seven deadly sins, art thou clear of them?”

“Heaven forefend I should be guilty of them. I know them not by name.”

“Many do them all that cannot name them. Begin with that one which leads to lying, theft, and murder.”

“I am quit of that one, any way. How call you it?”

“AVARICE, my son.”

“Avarice? Oh, as to that, I have been a saving man all my day; but I have kept a good table, and not altogether forgotten the poor. But, alas, I am a great sinner, Mayhap the next will catch me, What is the next?”

“We have not yet done with this one. Bethink thee, the Church is not to be trifled with.”

“Alas! am I in a condition to trifle with her now? Avarice? Avarice?”

He looked puzzled and innocent.

“Hast thou ever robbed the fatherless?” inquired the friar.

“Me? robbed the fatherless?” gasped Ghysbrecht; “not that I mind.”

“Once more, my son, I am forced to tell thee thou art trifling with the Church. Miserable man! another evasion, and I leave thee, and fiends will straightway gather round thy bed, and tear thee down to the bottomless pit.”

“Oh, leave me not! leave me not!” shrieked the terrified old man. “The Church knows all. I must have robbed the fatherless. I will confess. Who shall I begin with? My memory for names is shaken.”

The defence was skilful, but in this case failed.

“Hast thou forgotten Floris Brandt?” said Clement stonily.

The sick man reared himself in bed in a pitiable state of terror. “How knew you that?” said he.

“The Church knows many things,” said Clement coldly, “and by many ways that are dark to thee, Miserable impenitent, you called her to your side, hoping to deceive her, You said, ‘I will not confess to the cure but to some friar who knows not my misdeeds. So will I cheat the Church on my deathbed, and die as I have lived,’ But God, kinder to thee than thou art to thyself, sent to thee one whom thou couldst not deceive. He has tried thee; He was patient with thee, and warned thee not to trifle with Holy Church; but all is in vain; thou canst not confess; for thou art impenitent as a stone. Die, then, as thou hast lived. Methinks I see the fiends crowding round the bed for their prey. They wait but for me to go. And I go.”

He turned his back; but Ghysbrecht, in extremity of terror, caught him by the frock. “Oh, holy man, mercy! stay. I will confess all, all. I robbed my friend Floris, Alas! would it had ended there; for he lost little by me; but I kept the land from Peter his son, and from Margaret, Peter’s daughter. Yet I was always going to give it back; but I couldn’t, I couldn’t.”

“Avarice, my son, avarice, Happy for thee ’tis not too late.”

“No; I will leave it her by will. She will not have long to wait for it now; not above a month or two at farthest.”

“For which month’s possession thou wouldst damn thy soul for ever, Thou fool!”

The sick man groaned, and prayed the friar to be reasonable.

The friar firmly, but gently and persuasively, persisted, and with infinite patience detached the dying man’s gripe from another’s property. There were times when his patience was tried, and he was on the point of thrusting his hand into his bosom and producing the deed, which he had brought for that purpose; but after yesterday’s outbreak he was on his guard against choler; and to conclude, he conquered his impatience; he conquered a personal repugnance to the man, so strong as to make his own flesh creep all the time he was struggling with this miser for his soul; and at last, without a word about the deed, he won upon him to make full and prompt restitution.

How the restitution was made will be briefly related elsewhere: also certain curious effects produced upon Ghysbrecht by it; and when and on what terms Ghysbrecht and Clement parted.

I promised to relate two acts of the latter, indicative of his mind.

This is one. The other is told in two words.

As soon as he was quite sure Margaret had her own, and was a rich woman –

He disappeared.

CHAPTER XC

It was the day after that terrible scene: the little house in the Hoog Straet was like a grave, and none more listless and dejected than Catherine, so busy and sprightly by nature, After dinner, her eyes red with weeping, she went to the convent to try and soften Gerard, and lay the first stone at least of a reconciliation.

It was some time before she could make the porter understand whom she was seeking. Eventually she learned he had left late last night, and was not expected back, She went sighing with the news to Margaret. She found her sitting idle, like one with whom life had lost its savour; she had her boy clasped so tight in her arms, as if he was all she had left, and she feared some one would take him too. Catherine begged her to come to the Hoog Straet.

“What for?” sighed Margaret. “You cannot but say to yourselves, she is the cause of all.”

“Nay, nay,” said Catherine, “we are not so ill-hearted, and Eli is so fond on you; you will maybe soften him.”

“Oh, if you think I can do any good, I’ll come,” said Margaret, with a weary sigh.

They found Eli and a carpenter putting up another name in place of Cornelis and Sybrandt’s; and what should that name be but Margaret Brandt’s.

With all her affection for Margaret, this went through poor Catherine like a knife. “The bane of one is another’s meat,” said she.

“Can he make me spend the money unjustly?” replied Margaret coldly.

“You are a good soul,” said Catherine. “Ay, so best, sith he is the strongest.”

The next day Giles dropped in, and Catherine told the story all in favour of the black sheep, and invited his pity for them, anathematized by their brother, and turned on the wide world by their father. But Giles’s prejudices ran the other way; he heard her out, and told her bluntly the knaves had got off cheap; they deserved to be hanged at Margaret’s door into the bargain, and dismissing them with contempt, crowed with delight at the return of his favourite. “I’ll show him,” said he, what ’tis to have a brother at court with a heart to serve a friend, and a head to point the way.”

“Bless thee, Giles,” murmured Margaret softly.

“Thou wast ever his stanch friend, dear Giles,” said little Kate; “but alack, I know not what thou canst do for him now,”

Giles had left them, and all was sad and silent again, when a well-dressed man opened the door softly, and asked was Margaret Brandt here.

“D’ye hear, lass? You are wanted,” said Catherine briskly. In her the Gossip was indestructible.

“Well, mother,” said Margaret listlessly, “and here I am.”

A shuffling of feet was heard at the door, and a colourless, feeble old man was assisted into the room. It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. At sight of him Catherine shrieked, and threw her apron over her head, and Margaret shuddered violently, and turned her head swiftly away, not to see him.

A feeble voice issued from the strange visitor’s lips, “Good people, a dying man hath come to ask your forgiveness.”

“Come to look on your work, you mean,” said Catherine, taking down her apron and bursting out sobbing. “There, there. she is fainting; look to her, Eli, quick.”

“Nay,” said Margaret, in a feeble voice, “the sight of him gave me a turn, that is all, Prithee, let him say his say, and go; for he is the murderer of me and mine.”

“Alas,” said Ghysbrecht, “I am too feeble to say it standing. and no one biddeth me sit down.”

Eli, who had followed him into the house, interfered here, and said, half sullenly, half apologetically, “Well, burgomaster, ’tis not our wont to leave a visitor standing whiles we sit. But man, man, you have wrought us too much ill.” And the honest fellow’s voice began to shake with anger he fought hard to contain, because it was his own house.

Then Ghysbrecht found an advocate in one who seldom spoke in vain in that family.

It was little Kate. “Father, mother,” said she, “my duty to you, but this is not well. Death squares all accounts, And see you not death in his face? I shall not live long, good friends; and his time is shorter than mine.”

Eli made haste and set a chair for their dying enemy with his own hands. Ghysbrecht’s attendants put him into it. “Go fetch the boxes,” said he. They brought in two boxes, and then retired, leaving their master alone in the family he had so cruelly injured.

Every eye was now bent on him, except Margaret’s. He undid the boxes with unsteady fingers, and brought out of one the title-deeds of a property at Tergou. “This land and these houses belonged to Floris Brandt, and do belong to thee of right, his granddaughter. These I did usurp for a debt long since defrayed with interest. These I now restore their rightful owner with penitent tears. In this other box are three hundred and forty golden angels, being the rent and fines I have received from that land more than Floris Brandt’s debt to me, I have kept it compt, still meaning to be just one day; but Avarice withheld me, pray, good people, against temptation! I was not born dishonest: yet you see.”

“Well, to be sure!” cried Catherine. “And you the burgomaster! Hast whipt good store of thieves in thy day. However,” said she, on second thoughts, “’tis better late than never, What, Margaret, art deaf? The good man hath brought thee back thine own. Art a rich woman. Alack, what a mountain o’ gold!”

“Bid him keep land and gold, and give me back my Gerard, that he stole from me with his treason,” said Margaret, with her head still averted.

“Alas!” said Ghysbrecht, would I could, what I can I have done. Is it nought? It cost me a sore struggle; and I rose from my last bed to do it myself, lest some mischance should come between her and her rights.”

“Old man,” said Margaret, “since thou, whose idol is pelf, hast done this, God and the saints will, as I hope, forgive thee. As for me, I am neither saint nor angel, but only a poor woman, whose heart thou hast broken, Speak to him, Kate, for I am like the dead.”

Kate meditated a little while; and then her soft silvery voice fell like a soothing melody upon the air, “My poor sister hath a sorrow that riches cannot heal, Give her time, Ghysbrecht; ’tis not in nature she should forgive thee all. Her boy is fatherless; and she is neither maid, wife, nor widow; and the blow fell but two days syne, that laid her heart a bleeding.”

A single heavy sob from Margaret was the comment to these words.

“Therefore, give her time! And ere thou diest, she will forgive thee all, ay, even to pleasure me, that haply shall not be long behind thee, Ghysbrecht. Meantime, we, whose wounds be sore, but not so deep as hers, do pardon thee, a penitent and a dying man; and I, for one, will pray for thee from this hour; go in peace!”

Their little oracle had spoken; it was enough. Eli even invited him to break a manchet and drink a stoup of wine to give him heart for his journey.

But Ghysbrecht declined, and said what he had done was a cordial to him, “Man seeth but a little way before him, neighbour. This land I clung so to it was a bed of nettles to me all the time. ‘Tis gone; and I feel happier and livelier like for the loss on’t.”

He called his men, and they lifted him into the litter.

When he was gone Catherine gloated over the money. She had never seen so much together, and was almost angry with Margaret, for “sitting out there like an image.” And she dilated on the advantages of money.

And she teased Margaret till at last she prevailed on her to come and look at it.

“Better let her be, mother,” said Kate, “How can she relish gold, with a heart in her bosom liker lead?” But Catherine persisted.

The result was, Margaret looked down at all her wealth with wondering eyes. Then suddenly wrung her hands and cried with piercing anguish, “TOO LATE! TOO LATE!” And shook off her leaden despondency, only to go into strong hysterics over the wealth that came too late to be shared with him she loved.

A little of this gold, a portion of this land, a year or two ago, when it was as much her own as now; and Gerard would have never left her side for Italy or any other place.

Too late! Too late!”

CHAPTER XCI

Not many days after this came the news that Margaret Van Eyck was dead and buried. By a will she had made a year before, she left all her property, after her funeral expenses and certain presents to Reicht Heynes, to her dear daughter Margaret Brandt, requesting her to keep Reicht as long as unmarried.

By this will Margaret inherited a furnished house, and pictures and sketches that in the present day would be a fortune: among the pictures was one she valued more than a gallery of others.

It represented “A Betrothal.” The solemnity of the ceremony was marked in the grave face of the man, and the demure complacency of the woman. She was painted almost entirely by Margaret Van Eyck, but the rest of the picture by Jan. The accessories were exquisitely finished, and remain a marvel of skill to this day. Margaret Brandt sent word to Reicht to stay in the house till such time as she could find the heart to put foot in it, and miss the face and voice that used to meet her there; and to take special care of the picture “in the little cubboord:” meaning the diptych.

The next thing was, Luke Peterson came home, and heard that Gerard was a monk.

He was like to go mad with joy. He came to Margaret, and said – heed, mistress. If he cannot marry you I can.”

“You?” said Margaret. “Why, I have seen him.”

“But he is a friar.”

“He was my husband, and my boy’s father long ere he was a friar. And I have seen him, I’ve seen him.”

Luke was thoroughly puzzled. “I’ll tell you what,” said he; “I have got a cousin a lawyer. I’ll go and ask him whether you are married or single.”

“Nay, I shall ask my own heart, not a lawyer. So that is your regard for me; to go making me the town talk, oh, fie!”

“That is done already without a word from me.”

“But not by such as seek my respect. And if you do it, never come nigh me again.”

“Ay,” said Luke, with a sigh, “you are like a dove to all the rest; but you are a hardhearted tyrant to me.”

“‘Tis your own fault, dear Luke, for wooing me. That is what lets me from being as kind to you as I desire, Luke, my bonny lad, listen to me. I am rich now; I can make my friends happy, though not myself. Look round the street, look round the parish. There is many a quean in it fairer than I twice told, and not spoiled with weeping. Look high; and take your choice. Speak you to the lass herself, and I’ll speak to the mother; they shall not say thee nay; take my word for’t.”

“I see what ye mean,” said Luke, turning very red. “But if I can’t have your liking, I will none o’ your money. I was your servant when you were poor as I; and poorer. No; if you would liever be a friar’s leman than an honest man’s wife, you are not the woman I took you for: so part we withouten malice: seek you your comfort on yon road, where never a she did find it yet, and for me, I’ll live and die a bachelor. Good even, mistress.”

“Farewell, dear Luke; and God forgive you for saying that to me.”

For some days Margaret dreaded, almost as much as she desired, the coming interview with Gerard. She said to herself, “I wonder not he keeps away a while; for so should I.” However, he would hear he was a father; and the desire to see their boy would overcome everything. “And,” said the poor girl to herself, “if so be that meeting does not kill me, I feel I shall be better after it than I am now.”

But when day after day went by, and he was not heard of, a freezing suspicion began to crawl and creep towards her mind. What if his absence was intentional? What if he had gone to some cold-blooded monks his fellows, and they had told him never to see her more? The convent had ere this shown itself as merciless to true lovers as the grave itself.

At this thought the very life seemed to die out of her.

And now for the first time deep indignation mingled at times with her grief and apprehension. “Can he have ever loved me? To run from me and his boy without a word! Why, this poor Luke thinks more of me than he does.”

While her mind was in this state, Giles came roaring. “I’ve hit the clout; our Gerard is Vicar of Gouda.”

A very brief sketch of the dwarf’s court life will suffice to prepare the reader for his own account of this feat. Some months before he went to court his intelligence had budded. He himself dated the change from a certain 8th of June, when, swinging by one hand along with the week’s washing on a tight rope in the drying ground, something went crack inside his head; and lo! intellectual powers unchained. At court his shrewdness and bluntness of speech, coupled with his gigantic voice and his small stature, made him a Power: without the last item I fear they would have conducted him to that unpopular gymnasium, the gallows. The young Duchess of Burgundy, and Marie the heiress apparent, both petted him, as great ladies have petted dwarfs in all ages; and the court poet melted butter by the six-foot rule, and poured enough of it down his back to stew Goliah in. He even amplified, versified, and enfeebled certain rough and ready sentences dictated by Giles.

The centipedal prolixity that resulted went to Eli by letter, thus entitled-
“The high and puissant Princess Marie of Bourgogne her lytel jantilman hys
complaynt of y’ Coort, and
praise of a rusticall lyfe, versificated, and empapyred by me the lytel jantilman’s right lovynge and obsequious servitor, etc.”

But the dwarf reached his climax by a happy mixture of mind and muscle; thus:

The day before a grand court joust he challenged the Duke’s giant to a trial of strength. This challenge made the gravest grin, and aroused expectation.

Giles had a lofty pole planted ready, and at the appointed hour went up it like a squirrel, and by strength of arm made a right angle with his body, and so remained: then slid down so quickly, that the high and puissant princess squeaked, and hid her face in her hands, not to see the demise of her pocket-Hercules.

The giant effected only about ten feet, then looked ruefully up and ruefully down, and descended, bathed in perspiration to argue the matter.

“It was not the dwarf’s greater strength, but his smaller body.”

The spectators received this excuse with loud derision. There was the fact, the dwarf was great at mounting a pole: the giant only great at excuses. In short Giles had gauged their intellects: with his own body no doubt.

“Come,” said he, “an ye go to that, I’ll wrestle ye, my lad, if so be you will let me blindfold your eyne.”

The giant, smarting under defeat, and thinking he could surely recover it by this means, readily consented.

“Madam,” said Giles, “see you yon blind Samson? At a signal from me he shall make me a low obeisance, and unbonnet to me.”

“How may that be, being blinded?” inquired a maid of honour.

“I’ll wager on Giles for one,” said the princess.

“That is my affair.”

When several wagers were laid pro and con, Giles hit the giant in the bread-basket. He went double (the obeisance), and his bonnet fell off.

The company yelled with delight at this delicate stroke of wit, and Giles took to his heels. The giant followed as soon as he could recover his breath and tear off his bandage. But it was too late; Giles had prepared a little door in the wall, through which he could pass, but not a giant, and had coloured it so artfully, it looked like a wall; this door he tore open, and went headlong through, leaving no vestige but this posy, written very large upon the reverse of his trick door –
Long limbs, big body, panting wit By wee and wise is bet and bit

After this Giles became a Force.

He shall now speak for himself.

Finding Margaret unable to believe the good news, and sceptical as to the affairs of Holy Church being administered by dwarfs, he narrated as follows:

“When the princess sent for me to her bedroom as of custom, to keep her out of languor, I came not mirthful nor full of country dicts, as is my wont, but dull as lead,

“‘Why, what aileth thee?’ quo’ she. ‘Art sick?’ ‘At heart,’ quo’ I. ‘Alas, he is in love,’ quo’ she. Whereat five brazen hussies, which they call them maids of honour, did giggle loud. ‘Not so mad as that,’ said I, ‘seeing what I see at court of women folk,’

“‘There, ladies,’ quo’ the princess, ‘best let him a be. ‘Tis a liberal mannikin, and still giveth more than he taketh of saucy words.’

“‘In all sadness,’ quo’ she, ‘what is the matter?’

“I told her I was meditating, and what perplexed me was, that other folk could now and then keep their word, but princes never.

“‘Heyday,’ says she, ‘thy shafts fly high this morn.’ I told her, ‘Ay, for they hit the Truth,’

“She said I was as keen as keen; but it became not me to put riddles to her, nor her to answer them. ‘Stand aloof a bit, mesdames,’ said she, ‘and thou speak withouten fear;’ for she saw I was in sad earnest.

“I began to quake a bit; for mind ye, she can doff freedom and don dignity quicker than she can slip out of her dressing-gown into kirtle of state. But I made my voice so soft as honey (wherefore smilest?), and I said ‘Madam, one evening, a matter of five years agone, as ye sat with your mother, the Countess of Charolois, who is now in heaven, worse luck, you wi’ your lute, and she wi’ her tapestry, or the like, do ye mind there came came into ye a fair youth with a letter from a painter body, one Margaret Van Eyck?”

“She said she thought she did, ‘Was it not a tall youth, exceeding comely?’