RUDE travel is enticing to us English. And so are its records; even
though the adventurer be no pilgrim of love. And antique friendship has
at least the interest of a fossil. Still, as the true centre of this
story is in Holland, it is full time to return thither, and to those
ordinary personages and incidents, whereof life has been mainly composed
in all ages.
Jorian Ketel came to Peter's house to claim Margaret's promise; but
Margaret was ill in bed, and Peter, on hearing his errand, affronted him
and warned him off the premises, and one or two that stood by were for
ducking him; for both father and daughter were favourites, and the whole
story was in every mouth, and the Sevenbergens in that state of hot,
undiscriminating, irritation which accompanies popular sympathy.
So Jorian Ketel went off in dudgeon, and repented him of his good deed.
This sort of penitence is not rare, and has the merit of being sincere.
Dierich Brower, who was discovered at "The Three Kings," making a
chatterbox drunk in order to worm out of him the whereabouts of Martin
Wittenhaagen, was actually taken and flung into a horse-pond, and
threatened with worse usage, should he ever show his face in the burgh
again; and finally, municipal jealousy being roused, the burgomaster of
Sevenbergen sent a formal missive to the burgomaster of Tergou,
reminding him he had overstepped the law, and requesting him to apply to
the authorities of Sevenbergen on any future occasion when he might have
a complaint, real or imaginary, against any of its townsfolk.
The wily Ghysbrecht, suppressing his rage at this remonstrance, sent
back a civil message to say that the person he had followed to
Sevenbergen was a Tergovan, one Gerard, and that he had stolen the town
records: that Gerard having escaped into foreign parts, and probably
taken the documents with him, the whole matter was at an end.
Thus he made a virtue of necessity. But in reality his calmness was but
a veil: baffled at Sevenbergen, he turned his views elsewhere; he set
his emissaries to learn from the family at Tergou whither Gerard had
fled, and "to his infinite surprise" they did not know. This added to
his uneasiness. It made him fear Gerard was only lurking in the
neighborhood: he would make a certain discovery, and would come back and
take a terrible revenge. From this time Dierich and others that were
about him noticed a change for the worse in Ghysbrecht Van Swieten. He
became a moody, irritable man. A dread lay on him. His eyes cast furtive
glances, like one who expects a blow, and knows not from what quarter it
is to come. Making others wretched had not made him happy. It seldom
does.
The little family at Tergou, which, but for his violent interference,
might in time have cemented its difference without banishing spem gregis
to a distant land, wore still the same outward features, but within was
no longer the simple happy family this tale opened with. Little Kate
knew the share Cornelis and Sybrandt had in banishing Gerard, and
though, for fear of making more mischief still, she never told her
mother, yet there were times she shuddered at the bare sight of them,
and blushed at their hypocritical regrets. Catherine, with a woman's
vigilance, noticed this, and with a woman's subtlety said nothing, but
quietly pondered it, and went on watching for more. The black sheep
themselves, in their efforts to partake in the general gloom and sorrow,
succeeded so far as to impose upon their father and Giles: but the
demure satisfaction that lay at their bottom could not escape these
feminine eyes--
"That, noting all, seem'd nought to note."
Thus mistrust and suspicion sat at the table, poor substitutes for
Gerard's intelligent face, that had brightened the whole circle,
unobserved till it was gone. As for the old hosier, his pride had been
wounded by his son's disobedience, and so he bore stiffly up, and did
his best never to mention Gerard's name; but underneath his Spartan
cloak Nature might be seen tugging at his heartstrings. One anxiety he
never affected to conceal. "If I but knew where the boy is, and that his
life and health are in no danger, small would be my care," would he say;
and then a deep sigh would follow. I cannot help thinking that if Gerard
had opened the door just then, and walked in, there would have been many
tears and embraces for him, and few reproaches, or none.
One thing took the old couple quite by surprise--publicity. Ere Gerard
had been gone a week, his adventures were in every mouth; and, to make
matters worse, the popular sympathy declared itself warmly on the side
of the lovers, and against Gerard's cruel parents, and that old
busy-body the burgomaster, "who must put his nose into a business that
nowise concerned him."
* * * * *
"Mother," said Kate, "it is all over the town that Margaret is down with
a fever--a burning fever; her father fears her sadly."
"Margaret? what Margaret?" inquired Catherine, with a treacherous
assumption of calmness and indifference.
"Oh, mother! whom should I mean? Why Gerard's Margaret."
"Gerard's Margaret," screamed Catherine; "how dare you say such a word
to me? And I rede you never mention that hussy's name in this house,
that she has laid bare. She is the ruin of my poor boy, the flower of
all my flock. She is the cause that he is not a holy priest in the midst
of us, but is roaming the world, and I a desolate broken-hearted mother.
There, do not cry, my girl, I do ill to speak harsh to you. But, oh,
Kate! you know not what passes in a mother's heart. I bear up before you
all; it behoves me swallow my fears: but at night I see him in my dreams
and still some trouble or other near him: sometimes he is torn by wild
beasts; other times he is in the hands of robbers, and their cruel
knives uplifted to strike his poor pale face, that one should think
would move a stone. Oh! when I remember that, while I sit here in
comfort, perhaps my poor boy lies dead in some savage place: and all
along of that girl: there, her very name is ratsbane to me. I tremble
all over when I hear it."
"I'll not say anything, nor do anything to grieve you worse, mother,"
said Kate tenderly; but she sighed.
She whose name was so fiercely interdicted in this house, was much
spoken of, and even pitied, elsewhere. All Sevenbergen was sorry for
her, and the young men and maidens cast many a pitying glance, as they
passed, at the little window where the beauty of the village lay "dying
for love." In this familiar phrase they underrated her spirit and
unselfishness. Gerard was not dead, and she was too loyal herself to
doubt his constancy. Her father was dear to her and helpless; and, but
for bodily weakness, all her love for Gerard would not have kept her
from doing her duties, though she might have gone about them with
drooping head and heavy heart. But physical and mental excitement had
brought on an attack of fever so violent, that nothing but youth and
constitution saved her. The malady left her at last, but in that
terrible state of bodily weakness in which the patient feels life a
burden.
Then it is that love and friendship by the bedside are mortal angels
with comfort in their voices, and healing in their palms.
But this poor girl had to come back to life and vigour how she could.
Many days she lay alone, and the heavy hours rolled like leaden waves
over her. In her enfeebled state existence seemed a burden, and life a
thing gone by. She could not try her best to get well. Gerard was gone.
She had not him to get well for. Often she lay for hours quite still,
with the tears welling gently out of her eyes.
One day, waking from an uneasy slumber, she found two women in her room.
One was a servant, the other by the deep fur on her collar and sleeves
was a person of consideration: a narrow band of silvery hair, being
spared by her coiffure, showed her to be past the age when women of
sense conceal their years. The looks of both were kind and friendly.
Margaret tried to raise herself in the bed, but the old lady placed a
hand very gently on her.
"Lie still, sweetheart; we come not here to put you about, but to
comfort you, God willing. Now cheer up a bit, and tell us, first, who
think you we are?"
"Nay, madam, I know you, though I never saw you before: you are the
demoiselle Van Eyck, and this is Reicht Heynes. Gerard has oft spoken of
you, and of your goodness to him. Madam, he has no friend like you near
him now," and at this thought she lay back and the tears welled out of
her eyes in a moment.
The good-natured Reicht Heynes began to cry for company; but her
mistress scolded her. "Well, you are a pretty one for a sick-room," said
she: and she put out a world of innocent art to cheer the patient: and
not without some little success. An old woman, that has seen life and
all its troubles, is a sovereign blessing by a sorrowful young woman's
side. She knows what to say, and what to avoid. She knows how to soothe
her and interest her. Ere she had been there a hour, she had Margaret's
head lying on her shoulder instead of on the pillow, and Margaret's soft
eyes dwelling on her with gentle gratitude.
"Ah! this is hair," said the old lady, running her fingers through it.
"Come and look at it, Reicht!"
Reicht came and handled it, and praised it unaffectedly. The poor girl
that owned it was not quite out of the reach of flattery; owning
doubtless to not being dead.
"In sooth, madam, I did use to think it hideous: but _he_ praised it,
and ever since then I have been almost vain of it, saints forgive me.
You know how foolish those are that love."
"They are greater fools that don't," said the old lady, sharply.
Margaret opened her lovely eyes, and looked at her for her meaning.
This was only the first of many visits. In fact either Margaret Van Eyck
or Reicht came nearly every day until their patient was convalescent:
and she improved rapidly under their hands. Reicht attributed this
principally to certain nourishing dishes she prepared in Peter's
kitchen: but Margaret herself thought more of the kind words and eyes
that kept telling her she had friends to live for.
* * * * *
Martin Wittenhaagen went straight to Rotterdam, to take the bull by the
horns. The bull was a biped, with a crown for horns. It was Philip the
Good, duke of this, earl of that, lord of the other. Arrived at
Rotterdam, Martin found the court was at Ghent. To Ghent he went, and
sought an audience, but was put off and baffled by lacqueys and pages.
So he threw himself in his sovereign's way out hunting, and, contrary to
all court precedents, commenced the conversation--by roaring rustily for
mercy.
"Why, where is the peril, man?" said the duke, looking all round and
laughing.
"Grace for an old soldier hunted down by burghers!"
Now kings differ in character like other folk; but there is one trait
they have in common; they are mightily inclined to be affable to men of
very low estate. These do not vie with them in anything whatever, so
jealousy cannot creep in; and they amuse them by their bluntness and
novelty, and refresh the poor things with a touch of nature--a rarity in
courts. So Philip the Good reined in his horse and gave Martin almost a
_tête-à-tête_, and Martin reminded him of a certain battle-field where
he had received an arrow intended for his sovereign. The duke remembered
the incident perfectly, and was graciously pleased to take a cheerful
view of it. He could afford to, not having been the one hit. Then Martin
told his majesty of Gerard's first capture in the church, his
imprisonment in the tower, and the manoeuvre by which they got him
out, and all the details of the hunt; and, whether he told it better
than I have, or the duke had not heard so many good stories as you have,
certain it is that sovereign got so wrapt up in it, that, when a number
of courtiers came galloping up and interrupted Martin, he swore like a
costermonger, and threatened, only half in jest, to cut off the next
head that should come between him and a good story: and when Martin had
done, he cried out:--
"St. Luke! what sport goeth on in this mine earldom, ay! in my own
woods, and I see it not. You base fellows have all the luck." And he was
indignant at the partiality of Fortune. "Lo you now! this was a
man-hunt," said he. "_I_ never had the luck to be at a man-hunt."
"My luck was none so great," replied Martin bluntly; "I was on the wrong
side of the dogs' noses."
"Ah! so you were: I forgot that." And royalty was more reconciled to its
lot. "What would you then?"
"A free pardon, your highness, for myself and Gerard."
"For what?"
"For prison-breaking."
"Go to: the bird will fly from the cage. 'Tis instinct. Besides, coop a
young man up for loving a young woman? These burgomasters must be void
of common sense. What else?"
"For striking down the burgomaster."
"Oh, the hunted boar will turn to bay. 'Tis his right: and I hold him
less than man that grudges it him. What else?"
"For killing of the bloodhounds."
The duke's countenance fell.
"'Twas their life or mine," said Martin eagerly.
"Ay! but I can't have my bloodhounds, my beautiful bloodhounds,
sacrificed to----"
"No, no, no! They were not your dogs."
"Whose dogs, then?"
"The ranger's."
"Oh. Well, I am very sorry for him, but, as I was saying, I can't have
my old soldiers sacrificed to his bloodhounds. Thou shalt have thy free
pardon."
"And poor Gerard."
"And poor Gerard too, for thy sake. And more, tell thou this
burgomaster his doings mislike me: this is to set up for a king, not a
burgomaster. I'll have no kings in Holland but one. Bid him be more
humble: or by St. Jude I'll hang him before his own door, as I hanged
the burgomaster of what's the name, some town or other in Flanders it
was: no, 'twas somewhere in Brabant--no matter--I hanged him, I remember
that much--for oppressing poor folk."
The duke then beckoned his chancellor, a pursy old fellow that rode like
a sack, and bade him write out a free pardon for Martin and one Gerard.
This precious document was drawn up in form, and signed next day, and
Martin hastened home with it.
Margaret had left her bed some days, and was sitting pale and pensive by
the fireside, when he burst in, waving the parchment, and crying, "A
free pardon, girl, for Gerard as well as me! Send for him back when you
will; all the burgomasters on earth daren't lay a finger on him."
She flushed all over with joy, and her hands trembled with eagerness as
she took the parchment and devoured it with her eyes, and kissed it
again and again, and flung her arms round Martin's neck, and kissed
_him_. When she was calmer, she told him Heaven had raised her up a
friend in the dame Van Eyck. "And I would fain consult her on this good
news: but I have not strength to walk so far."
"What need to walk? There is my mule."
"Your mule, Martin?"
The old soldier or professional pillager laughed, and confessed he had
got so used to her, that he forgot at times Ghysbrecht had a prior
claim. To-morrow he would turn her into the burgomaster's yard, but
to-night she should carry Margaret to Tergou.
It was nearly dusk; so Margaret ventured, and about seven in the evening
she astonished and gladdened her new but ardent friend, by arriving at
her house with unwonted roses on her cheeks, and Gerard's pardon in her
bosom.