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. Why?"
"Then--but he had but 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 bed post; 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 bunch I doff bonnet, and, says I, 'My 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 his 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, where-about 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, 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 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 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.