SOME blackguard or other, I think it was Sybrandt, said, "A lie is not
like a blow with a curtal axe."
True: for we can predict in some degree the consequences of a stroke
with any material weapon. But a lie has no bounds at all. The nature of
the thing is to ramify beyond human calculation.
Often in the every-day world a lie has cost a life, or laid waste two or
three.
And so, in this story, what tremendous consequences of that one
heartless falsehood!
Yet the tillers reaped little from it.
The brothers, who invented it merely to have one claimant the less for
their father's property, saw little Gerard take their brother's place in
their mother's heart. Nay, more, one day Eli openly proclaimed that,
Gerard being lost, and probably dead, he had provided by will for little
Gerard, and also for Margaret, his poor son's widow.
At this the look that passed between the black sheep was a caution to
traitors. Cornelis had it on his lips to say Gerard was most likely
alive. But he saw his mother looking at him, and checked himself in
time.
Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the other partner in that lie, was now a failing
man. He saw the period fast approaching when all his wealth would drop
from his body, and his misdeeds cling to his soul.
Too intelligent to deceive himself entirely, he had never been free from
gusts of remorse. In taking Gerard's letter to Margaret he had
compounded. "I cannot give up land and money," said his giant Avarice.
"I will cause her no unnecessary pain," said his dwarf Conscience.
So, after first tampering with the seal, and finding there was not a
syllable about the deed, he took it to her with his own hand; and made a
merit of it to himself: a set-off; and on a scale not uncommon where the
self-accuser is the judge.
The birth of Margaret's child surprised and shocked him, and put his
treacherous act in a new light. Should his letter take effect he should
cause the dishonour of her, who was the daughter of one friend, the
granddaughter of another, and whose land he was keeping from her too.
These thoughts preying on him at that period of life, when the strength
of body decays, and the memory of old friends revives, filled him with
gloomy horrors. Yet he was afraid to confess. For the curé was an honest
man, and would have made him disgorge. And with him Avarice was an
ingrained habit, Penitence only a sentiment.
Matters were thus when, one day, returning from the town-hall to his own
house, he found a woman waiting for him in the vestibule, with a child
in her arms. She was veiled, and so, concluding she had something to be
ashamed of, he addressed her magisterially. On this she let down her
veil and looked him full in the face.
It was Margaret Brandt.
Her sudden appearance and manner startled him, and he could not conceal
his confusion.
"Where is my Gerard?" cried she, her bosom heaving. "Is he alive?"
"For aught I know," stammered Ghysbrecht. "I hope so, for your sake.
Prithee come into this room. The servants!"
"Not a step," said Margaret, and she took him by the shoulder, and held
him with all the energy of an excited woman. "You know the secret of
that which is breaking my heart. Why does not my Gerard come, nor send
a line this many months? Answer me, or all the town is like to hear me;
let alone thy servants. My misery is too great to be sported with."
In vain he persisted he knew nothing about Gerard. She told him those
who had sent her to him told her another tale. "You do know why he
neither comes nor sends," said she, firmly.
At this Ghysbrecht turned paler and paler; but he summoned all his
dignity, and said, "Would you believe those two knaves against a man of
worship?"
"What two knaves?" said she, keenly.
He stammered, "Said ye not--? There, I am a poor old broken man, whose
memory is shaken. And you come here, and confuse me so. I know not what
I say."
"Ay, sir, your memory is shaken, or sure you would not be my enemy. My
father saved you from the plague, when none other would come anigh you;
and was ever your friend. My grandfather Floris helped you in your early
poverty, and loved you, man and boy. Three generations of us you have
seen; and here is the fourth of us; this is your old friend Peter's
grandchild, and your old friend Floris his great-grandchild. Look down
on his innocent face, and think of theirs!"
"Woman, you torture me," sighed Ghysbrecht, and sank upon a bench. But
she saw her advantage, and kneeled before him, and put the boy on his
knees. "This fatherless babe is poor Margaret Brandt's, that never did
you ill, and comes of a race that loved you. Nay, look at his face.
'Twill melt thee more than any word of mine. Saints of heaven, what can
a poor desolate girl and her babe have done to wipe out all memory of
thine own young days, when thou wert guiltless as he is, that now looks
up in thy face and implores thee to give him back his father?"
And with her arms under the child she held him up higher and higher,
smiling under the old man's eyes.
He cast a wild look of anguish on the child, and another on the kneeling
mother, and started up shrieking, "Avaunt, ye pair of adders."
The stung soul gave the old limbs a momentary vigour, and he walked
rapidly, wringing his hands and clutching at his white hair. "Forget
those days? I forget all else. Oh, woman, woman, sleeping or waking I
see but the faces of the dead, I hear but the voices of the dead, and I
shall soon be among the dead. There, there, what is done is done. I am
in hell. I am in hell."
And unnatural force ended in prostration.
He staggered, and but for Margaret would have fallen. With her one
disengaged arm she supported him as well as she could, and cried for
help.
A couple of servants came running, and carried him away in a state
bordering on syncope. The last Margaret saw of him was his old furrowed
face, white and helpless as his hair that hung down over the servant's
elbow.
"Heaven forgive me," she said. "I doubt I have killed the poor old man."
Then this attempt to penetrate the torturing mystery left it as dark, or
darker than before. For when she came to ponder every word, her
suspicion was confirmed that Ghysbrecht did know something about Gerard.
"And who were the two knaves he thought had done a good deed, and told
me? Oh, my Gerard, my poor deserted babe, you and I are wading in deep
waters."
The visit to Tergou took more money than she could well afford: and a
customer ran away in her debt. She was once more compelled to unfold
Catherine's angel. But, strange to say, as she came down stairs with it
in her hand she found some loose silver on the table, with a written
line--
_For Gerard His Wife_
She fell with a cry of surprise on the writing: and soon it rose into a
cry of joy.
"He is alive. He sends me this by some friendly hand."
She kissed the writing again and again, and put it in her bosom.
Time rolled on: and no news of Gerard.
And about every two months a small sum in silver found its way into the
house. Sometimes it lay on the table. Once it was flung in through the
bedroom window in a purse. Once it was at the bottom of Luke's basket.
He had stopped at the public-house to talk to a friend. The giver or his
agent was never detected. Catherine disowned it. Margaret Van Eyck swore
she had no hand in it. So did Eli. And Margaret, whenever it came, used
to say to little Gerard, "Oh, my poor deserted child, you and I are
wading in deep waters."
She applied at least half this modest, but useful supply, to dressing
the little Gerard beyond his station in life. "If it does come from
Gerard, he shall see his boy neat." All the mothers in the street began
to sneer, especially such as had brats out at elbows.
The months rolled on, and dead sickness of heart succeeded to these
keener torments. She returned to her first thought: "Gerard must be
dead. She should never see her boy's father again, nor her marriage
lines." This last grief, which had been somewhat allayed by Eli and
Catherine recognizing her betrothal, now revived in full force; others
would not look so favourably on her story. And often she moaned over her
boy's illegitimacy. "Is it not enough for us to be bereaved? Must we be
dishonoured too? Oh, that we had ne'er been born."
A change took place in Peter Brandt. His mind, clouded for nearly two
years, seemed now to be clearing; he had intervals of intelligence; and
then he and Margaret used to talk of Gerard till he wandered again. But
one day, returning after an absence of some hours, Margaret found him
conversing with Catherine, in a way he had never done since his
paralytic stroke. "Eh, girl, why must you be out?" said she. "But indeed
I have told him all; and we have been a-crying together over thy
troubles."
Margaret stood silent, looking joyfully from one to the other.
Peter smiled on her, and said, "Come, let me bless thee."
She kneeled at his feet, and he blessed her most eloquently. He told her
she had been all her life the lovingest, truest, and most obedient
daughter Heaven ever sent to a poor old widowed man. "May thy son be to
thee what thou hast been to me!"
After this he dozed. Then the females whispered together: and Catherine
said--"All our talk e'en now was of Gerard. It lies heavy on his mind.
His poor head must often have listened to us when it seemed quite dark.
Margaret, he is a very understanding man; he thought of many things: 'He
may be in prison,' says he, 'or forced to go fighting for some king, or
sent to Constantinople to copy books there, or gone into the Church
after all.' He had a bent that way."
"Ah, mother," whispered Margaret, in reply, "he doth but deceive himself
as we do."
Ere she could finish the sentence, a strange interruption occurred.
A loud voice cried out, "I SEE HIM. I SEE HIM."
And the old man with dilating eyes seemed to be looking right through
the wall of the house.
"IN A BOAT; on a GREAT RIVER; COMING THIS WAY. Sore disfigured; but I
knew him. Gone! gone! all dark."
And he sank back, and asked feebly where was Margaret.
"Dear father, I am by thy side. Oh, mother! mother, what is this?"
"I cannot see thee, and but a moment agone I saw all round the world.
Ay, ay. Well, I am ready. Is this thy hand? Bless thee, my child, bless
thee! Weep not! The tree is ripe."
The old physician read the signs aright. These calm words were his last.
The next moment he drooped his head, and gently, placidly, drifted away
from earth, like an infant sinking to rest. The torch had flashed up,
before going out.