 CHAPTER 83 of THE CLOISTER AND THE HALF by Charles Reade Waiting an earnest letter, seldom leaves the mind in statu quo. Margaret in hers ventured 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 Catelyn. 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. 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. Gouda had made the pair such fast friends. Jorian some 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 sub that. Alas, guilt-chicken broth! Shared the fate of the humbler vians, its predecessors. Then Nicure steeped the thumb of Saint 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. A lack woman, what for? Why foul more linen for a dying man, objected the medieval wife. Do as thou art bid, said Margaret Dully. Margaret 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. Bid his 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 ski-dam 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 Cattle on his legs again. But the doctoress 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 fever-few. 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 in 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 impsa darkness, then, that they must not come and eye 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 of the common than yon, a man of my interest to be cured with fever few, says he. Why, if there is a sorry herb, says he, why I was thinking of pulling all mine up, says he. I up and told him remedies were none the better for being far-fetched. You and fever few 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 fever few. 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 thee vow not to tell ye, pretty tell me. Well he said, and 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 head-piece, said he. I am so perplexed, but least said, is soonest mended. Yon is his favourite word, he comes back to it from a mile off. But shook ahead, I, we are wading in deep waters, my poor babe and me. It was Saturday night, and no look. Poor look, 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? I… The Cloyster 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 Eliasson, 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, pretty 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 instead. 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 loath 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, beyond 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 prier 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? Ship wrecked 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 me to England, man born without a heart, I will go and pray over a grave at Sevenburgan. Three hours later he passed Peter's cottage. A troupe 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 at tombstone, so searched the churchyard all over again. Oh poverty, stern poverty, poor soul, thou word 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 he 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 looked by there long. My son, can you tell me where Margaret lies? Margaret? There's are many Margaret's 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 long full while ago, gone in a moment and the house empty. What is she, dead? Peter, Peter, dead? Now only think on't. Like in now, like in now, they great towns do terribly disagree with country folk. What great towns, my son? Well, it was Rotterdam they went to from here, so I heard tell. Oh, was it Amsterdam? Nay, I trod, it was Rotterdam, and gone there to die. It was not in her face now that I saw, and I can mostly tell, a lack there was a blooming young flower to be cut off so soon, an all old weed like me, left standing still. Well, well, she was a Mayrosion. Dear heart would 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. End of chapter 83, recording by Tom Denham, chapter 84 of the Cloister and the Harth by Charles Reid. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Tom Denham, The Harth. The next day, Sunday after mass, was a bustling day at Catherine's house in the Hooke Strait. The shop was now quite ready, and Cornelis and Cybrandt 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 linger, and both their faces were as red as the fire. The in-came-john 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 old lass, what a sermon in the new kirk! 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 preaches again this afternoon. But may help you a-wondered here?' "'Not she,' said Catherine. "'Come away you go, if you're minded.' "'Indeed,' said Margaret, me thinks I should not be such a damper at table, if I could come to it 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, air-sunset, God willing.' "'The sweetest voice. But, oh, my mistresses, what thin cheeks for a young man, and great eyes, not far from Yorker, 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 munchers.' "'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 raw 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 a gog to go. That is the way with me this month passed up and down, up and down, like the waves of the Zidazee. "'I just leave aside thee, say the word.' "'Nay,' said Kate, pretty 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 throw I must not,' said she, I could never 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 that two new words thou hast gotten.' And she went out, looking lovingly over her shoulder, and shut the door inaudibly. "'Joe, will you lend me a hand and peel these?' said Catherine. "'That I will, Dame,' and the cooking proceeded with silent vigor. "'Now, Joe, 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 in the air. He is digging today by good luck.' Margaret came down. "'A woman, young is an ugly trade. There she has just washed her face and came her hair at turn, and now who is like her? Rot her down, that for you!' And Catherine snapped her fingers at the capitol. "'Give us a bus, Hussie. Now mind, Eli won't wait supper for the Duke, wherefore loiter not after your Kirk 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 her 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 Kirk,' and stood her looking after, the which I've done it many's and many's the times. Unless 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'd wed her to yon simple Luke, and there an end. What's one grandchild?' CHAPTER 85 OF THE CLOISTER AND THE HALF by Charles Reid The sermon had begun when Margaret entered the great church of St. Lawrence. It was a huge edifice, far from completed. Churches were not built in a year. The side aisles were roofed, but not the mid-ail 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 today 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 checkered with light and shade in broken outlines. The shades seemed 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-ail, huge as it was, was crammed, yet quite still. The words and the mellow, gentle, earnest voice of the preacher held the 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 languor crept over her at the loveliness of the place, and the preacher's musical voice. And barmy oils seemed to trickle over the waves in her heart, and smoothed 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 adieu to keep from smiling. Yet it was nothing essentially drool. 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 Jorien Keitel 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 made 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 wake in 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 away. 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 fryer'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. Characters got up all over the building and craned forward, agitated faces by hundreds gazed from the fryer to Margaret and from Margaret to the fryer. The turning two 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 workman 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 paws and gustly 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 head-stove. 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. O 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, way-laying the holy preacher. End of CHAPTER 85 CHAPTER 86 OF THE CLOISTER AND THE HAARTH The cool church, checkered with sun-beams 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 Isle, 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 weather-cock 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 Isle. 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 urban hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like the glorialer of a plant, 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 urban 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 Sevenburgan in vain. She had now been permitted to appear to him, and show him that she was buried here, terribly 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 onto the grass, and went up to the sexton. He knew him in a moment. But Jorrian never suspected the poor lad whose life he had saved in this holy fryer. 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 fryer Clement softly, if you keep any memory of those whom you lay in the earth, Prithi, tell me, is any Christian buried inside the church near one of the pillars?' "'Nay, father,' said Jorrian, here in the church yard lie buried all that buried be.' "'Why?' "'No matter. Prithi, tell me, then, where lieeth Margaret Brandt?' "'Margaret Brandt?' And Jorrian stared stupidly at the speaker. She died about three years ago and was buried here. "'Oh, that is another matter,' said Jorrian. "'That was before my time. The vicar could tell you likely. If so be, she was a gentle woman, 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 Sevenburgen, 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 Jorrian more. I doubt even if he knew where he was. He was lost in the past. Jorrian put down his spade, and standing upright in the grave, set his arms at Kimbo, 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 vigor 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, Jorrian 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 are standing there looking at me like a lamb. Ha-ha! I have it.' "'Tis Peter Brant's grave you would faint 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 picturesquant characteristic form and becomes a feature in the face, so that its removal may in some cases be an effectual disguise. End of CHAPTER 86 CHAPTER 87 OF THE CLOYSTER AND THE HALF BY CHARLES REED While Jorien 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 seven Bergenway, and they do say he gave him a touch of his trade at parting. Told him he saw Margaret Slatter coming down Rhine in brave clothes and store a money, but his face scarred by foreign glaive, and not altogether so many arms and legs as they went away with. But dear heart, naught 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 it was about to race 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? I'd buried him, but she paid a fee and reared the stone. Then he had just one daughter, Margaret? No more least ways that he owned two. Then you think Margaret 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 ago. Now had she been dead, she couldn't have 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 them shift me where I lay, and cures me in the twinkling of our bed-post. But we what? There pinches the shoe, with the scurviest herb, and out of my own garden, too, with sweet fever-few. A herb, quoth that, is a weed. Which ways it was a weed, till it cured me. But now, when ere I pass my hunch, I doth bonnet, and, says I, fly service to him. 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? And a surprise, that the dejoy, the wonder, the fear, gasped Clement. Why, what is it to thee? Art thou of kin to Margaret Brunt? Nay, but I knew one that loved her well, so well her death, and I killed him, body and soul, and yet thou sayest she lives, and I believe thee. And after a considerable silence said very gravely, Father, you have asked me many questions, and I have answered them truly. Now for our ladies' sake answer me but too. Did you, in very sooth no 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 Eliasson. Oh, but this is strange! Stay! What made thee say Margaret Brunt 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. I sit ye down, ye do look like a ghost, ye fast over much to be strong. My mind misgives me. Me thinks I hold the clue to this riddle, and if I do, there be two naves in this town whose heads I would feign but at a 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 true word of 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 whilst the slow-hound puzzles out the scent, go too! And I do think you and I have got hold of two ends of one stick, and a main foul one. Jorian then, after some of those useless preliminaries men of his class all was dealing, came to the point of the story. He had been employed by the burgamaster 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 burgamaster talking about a letter which Cornelis and Cybrandt 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 drawful of silver, and if they did the trick they should each put a hand in, and have all the silver they could hold in. Well, Father continued Jorian, I thought not much on it at the time except for the bargain itself that kept me awake mostly all night. Think on it, next morning at peep of day, who should I see but my masters Cornelis and Cybrandt come out of their house each with a black eye? Oh, says I, what young 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 burgamaster's house? Aye 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 burgamaster 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 paw-path, and I saw the drawer opened and those two naves put in each a hand and draw it out full, and saints in glory how they tried to hold more and more and more aeon stuff. And Cybrandt he had dobbed his hand in something sticky, I think it was glue, and he made shift to carry one or two pieces away as sticking to the back of his hand, he he he, to succin to laugh. So you see luck was on the wrong side as usual, they had done the trick, but how they did it, that me thinks, will never be known till doomsday. Go to, they left their immortal jewels in yon draw. Well, they got a handful of silver for them, the devil had the worst of 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, it is always so. Have not the old folk just taken a brave new shop for them in this very town in the Hooke Street, there may you see their sign, a gilt sheep at the Lampkin, a brace of wolves sucking their dam would be nigh of 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 that 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 in the window looking her down 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-naves, yarn-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 sweet-heart shoulder, the happiest she in Holland in place of the saddest, oh, I thirst for their blood, the nasty, sneaking, lying, cogging, cowardly, heartless, bowell-less, how now? The monk started wildly oblivious 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 church yard 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 as 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 where about you were buried in this church yard. Ha! I told him nowhere, thank heaven you were alive and saving other folk from the church yard. Well, well, the long and the short is, he knew thy Jared 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 demoisel van Eyck! That was his way of it, but I up-and-told him nay, to snide the demoisel nor dame, that pen'd yon lie, but guise-brecht van Sviten, and those foul-naves Cornelis and Cybrant. 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! I, thus, and thus for thine enemies I have given them a dig, for yon Friar is friendly to Jared, and he is gone to Eli's house, me thinks, for I told him where to find Jared's enemies and thine, and thou but he will give them their lesson. If ever a man was mad with rage it's 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-added. Oh, Jorien, 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 Giesbrecht and heard the frightful crash, come save him from worse mischief, the water is deep in o, but not bloody yet, come! Her accents were so full of agony that Jorien sprung out of the grave and came with her, huddling on his jerken as he went. As they hurried along he asked her, what on earth she meant? I talk of this friar, and you answer me of Jared. Man, see you not, this is Jared. This Jared, what mean ye? I mean, yon friar is my boy's father. I have waited for him long, Jorien, while he has come to me at last, and thank God for it. Oh, my poor child, quicker, Jorien, quicker, why, thou, what matters he? Stay! By St. Bavon, yon was Jared's face, twas not 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 Hoogstreet. Then Jorien tried to reassure her. You are making your own trouble, said he, who says he has gone thither? More likely than the convent to weep and pray, poor soul. Oh, cursed, cursed villains! Did you not tell him where those villains bide? Aye, that I did. Then quicker, o' Jorien, 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 Jorien 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, when went tearing down the street. Margaret screamed and sank fainting on Jorien's arm. Jorien shouted after him, Stay mad, mad, know thy friends! But he was deaf and went headlong, shaking his clenched fists high, high in the air. Help me in, good Jorien, 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. Jorien'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. End of CHAPTER 87. 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 further loss of 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. You're not here for a slave, I troubled a guest. There I hear a quick step, off covers and fall too. 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 Cybrant, through 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 hellfire 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 ditched him prison 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 Yorian'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 have 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, had 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 Yorian 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 effort to comfort her. But it was not to be done. Oh, my poor children! she cried! Oh, miserable mother! Tissa 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 you, 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 I 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 Yorian and Joan. We are in a little trouble, as you see. But that is no reason why you should starve. For our lady's sake, fall to, and add not to my grief the reputation of a churl. What a 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 my 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. Yorian, 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. Ensuth, I forgot, said Eli apologetically. My son, who was reared at my table, hath cursed my vitals. That seems strange. Well, what God wills, man must bow to. The supper was flung out into the yard. Yorian 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, End of chapter 88, Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 89 of The Cloyster and the Half by Charles Reed 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 Tegu. He went there to confront his fatal enemy, the burgamaster, 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 strive her dying master. He returned the bread to his wallet, and followed her without a word. She took him to the Stathouse. 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 valuous thy soul's wheel. Be think 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 Gisbrecht, with apparent calmness, my son, confess thy sins. Ah, Father, said the sick man, there are many and great. Great then be thy penitence, my son, so shall thou find God's mercy great. Gisbrecht 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 Saint's 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 hast done better to begin with them. Why, Father, what crimes lie to my account of 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 ought thou clear of them. Heaven, for, friend, 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, anyway. How call you it?' "'Avaris, my son.' "'Avaris? 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. Maybe the next will catch me. What is the next? We have not yet done with this one. Be think thee, the church is not to be trifled with. Alas, I in a condition to trifle with her now. Avaris, Avaris!' He looked puzzled and innocent. "'Hast thou ever robbed the fatherless?' inquired the friar. "'Me, robbed the fatherless?' gasped Gisbrecht. "'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 from Dames is shaken.' The defence was skillful, but in this case failed. "'Hast thou forgotten, Floris Brandt?' said Clement stonely. 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 I will cheek the church on my death bed 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. Me thinks 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 Gisbrecht, 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! Wood 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. Avaris, my son, Avaris, happy for thee, it is 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 grip 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 collar. 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 Giesbrecht by it, and when and on what terms Giesbrecht 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. End of chapter 89, Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 90 of The Cloister and the Half by Charles Reid This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham It was the day after that terrible scene. The little house in the Hoogstreet 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 savor. She had her little boy clasped so tight in her arms as if he was all she had left, and she feared someone would take him too. Catherine begged her to come to the Hoogstreet. What for? Said Margaret, you cannot but say to yourselves she is the cause of all. No, no, 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 Cybrants. And what should that name be but Margaret Brantz? 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. I so best, Sithie, 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, anathematised 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 is 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. That was ever his staunch friend, dear Giles, said little Kate. But alak, 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 brand here? Dear lass, you're 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 Gisbrecht fan-sveeten. At the 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 Gisbrecht, I am too feeble to say it standing, and no one bideth me sit down. Eli, who had followed him into the house, interfered here, and said, half sullenly, half apologetically, Well, Burger Master, it is not our won't to leave a visitor standing whilst we sit. But, man, man, you have wrought us too much ill. And the honest fellow's voice began to shake with anger he found hard to contain, because it was his own house. Then Gisbrecht 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. Gisbrecht's attendance 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 Turgu. This land and these houses belong 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 comped, 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 burgamaster, hast whipped good store of thieves in thy day. However, said she, on second thoughts, tis better late than ever. What, Margaret, art death, the good man hath brought thee back thine own. Art a rich woman, a lack what a mountain of gold. Bid him keep land and gold, and give me back my gero, that he stole from me with his treason, said Margaret, with her head still averted. Alas, said Gisbrecht, would I could. What I can, I have done. Is it not? 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, has 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, Gisbrecht, 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' sign 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 dyest, she will forgive thee all. I, even to pleasure me, that happily shall not be long behind thee, Gisbrecht. Meantime we, whose wounds be sore, but not so deep as hers, to 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 manchette and drink a stoop of wine to give him heart for his journey. But Gisbrecht declined and said what he had done was a cordial to him. Manseeth 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 loessont. He called his men, and they lifted him into the littering. 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, like a 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 us. Her own as now, and Gerard would have never left her side for Italy, or any other place. Too late, too late.