The Cloister and the Hearth

  CHAPTER XCVI

  Margaret went back to Rotterdam long ere Gerard awoke, and actually lefther boy behind her. She sent the faithful, sturdy Reicht off to Goudadirectly with a vicar's grey frock and large felt hat, and with minuteinstructions how to govern her new master.

  Then she went to Jorian Ketel; for she said to herself, "he is theclosest I ever met, so he is the man for me," and in concert with himshe did two mortal sly things; yet not, in my opinion, virulent, thoughshe thought they were; but if I am asked what were these deeds withouta name, the answer is, that as she, who was, 'but a woman,' kept themsecret till her dying day, I, who am a man--"Verbum non amplius addam."

  She kept away from Gouda parsonage.

  Things that pass little noticed in the heat of argument sometimes rankleafterwards; and when she came to go over all that had passed, she wasoffended at Gerard thinking she could ever forget the priest in the sometime lover, "For what did he take me?" said she. And this raised a greatshyness which really she would not otherwise have felt, being downrightinnocent, And pride sided with modesty, and whispered, "Go no more toGouda parsonage."

  She left little Gerard there to complete the conquest her maternal heartascribed to him, not to her own eloquence and sagacity, and to anchorhis father for ever to humanity.

  But this generous stroke of policy cost her heart dear. She had neveryet been parted from her boy an hour, and she felt sadly strange as wellas desolate without him. After the first day it became intolerable; andwhat does the poor soul do, but creep at dark up to Gouda parsonage, andlurk about the premises like a thief till she saw Reicht Heynes in thekitchen alone, Then she tapped softly at the window and said, "Reicht,for pity's sake bring him out to me unbeknown." With Margaret the personwho occupied her thoughts at the time ceased to have a name, and sank toa pronoun.

  Reicht soon found an excuse for taking little Gerard out, and there wasa scene of mutual rapture, followed by mutual tears when mother and boyparted again.

  And it was arranged that Reicht should take him half way to Rotterdamevery day, at a set hour, and Margaret meet them. And at these meetings,after the raptures, and after mother and child had gambolled togetherlike a young cat and her first kitten, the boy would sometimes amusehimself alone at their feet, and the two women generally seized thisopportunity to talk very seriously about Luke Peterson, This began thus:

  "Reicht," said Margaret, "I as good as promised him to marry LukePeterson. 'Say you the word,' quoth I, 'and I'll wed him.'"

  "Poor Luke!"

  "Prithee, why poor Luke?"

  "To be bandied about so, atwixt yea and nay."

  "Why, Reicht, you have not ever been so simple as to cast an eye ofaffection on the boy, that you take his part?"

  "Me?" said Reicht, with a toss of the head.

  "Oh, I ask your pardon. Well, then, you can do me a good turn."

  "Whisht! whisper! that little darling is listening to every word, andeyes like saucers."

  On this both their heads would have gone under one cap.

  Two women plotting against one boy? Oh, you great cowardly serpents!

  But when these stolen meetings had gone on for about five days Margaretbegan to feel the injustice of it, and to be irritated as well asunhappy.

  And she was crying about it when a cart came to her door, and in it,clean as a new penny, his beard close shaved, his hands white as snow,and a little colour in his pale face, sat the Vicar of Gouda in the greyfrock and large felt hat she had sent him.

  She ran upstairs directly, and washed away all traces of her tears,and put on a cap, which being just taken out of the drawer was cleaner,theoretically, than the one she had on, and came down to him.

  He seized both her hands and kissed them, and a tear fell upon them. Sheturned her head away at that to hide her own which started.

  "My sweet Margaret," he cried, "why is this? Why hold you aloof fromyour own good deed? we have been waiting for you every day, and noMargaret."

  "You said things."

  "What! when I was a hermit, and a donkey."

  "Ay! no matter, you said things. And you had no reason."

  "Forget all I said there. Who hearkens the ravings of a maniac? for Isee now that in a few months more I should have been a gibbering idiot;yet no mortal could have persuaded me away but you. Oh what an outlay ofwit and goodness was yours! But it is not here I can thank and blessyou as I ought. No, it is in the home you have given me, among the sheepwhose shepherd you have made me; already I love them dearly; there itis I must thank 'the truest friend ever man had.' So now I say to you aserst you said to me, come to Gouda manse."

  "Humph! we will see about that."

  "Why, Margaret, think you I had ever kept the dear child so long, butthat I made sure you would be back to him from day to day? Oh he curlsround my very heartstrings, but what is my title to him compared tothine? Confess now, thou hast had hard thoughts of me for this."

  "Nay, nay, not I. Ah! thou art thyself again; wast ever thoughtful ofothers. I have half a mind to go to Gouda manse, for your saying that."

  "Come then, with half thy mind, 'tis worth the whole of other folk's."

  "Well, I dare say I will; but there is no such mighty hurry," said shecoolly (she was literally burning to go). "Tell me first how you agreewith your folk."

  "Why, already my poor have taken root in my heart."

  "I thought as much."

  "And there are such good creatures among them; simple and rough, andsuperstitious, but wonderfully good."

  "Oh I leave you alone for seeing a grain of good among a bushel of ill."

  "Whisht! whisht! And Margaret, two of them have been ill friends forfour years, and came to the manse each to get on my blind side. But givethe glory to God I got on their bright side, and made them friends, andlaugh at themselves for their folly."

  "But are you in very deed their vicar? answer me that."

  "Certes; have I not been to the bishop and taken the oath, and rung thechurch bell, and touched the altar, the missal, and the holy cup beforethe church-wardens? And they have handed me the parish seal; see, hereit is. Nay, 'tis a real vicar inviting a true friend to Gouda manse."

  "Then my mind is at ease. Tell me oceans more."

  "Well, sweet one, nearest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple thatmy guardian angel and his (her name thou knowest even by this turning ofthy head away) hath placed beneath my roof. Sybrandt and I are that wenever were till now, brothers. 'Twould gladden thee, yet sadden thee tohear how we kissed and forgave one another. He is full of thy praises,and wholly in a pious mind; he says he is happier since his trouble thane'er he was in the days of his strength. Oh! out of my house he ne'ershall go to any place but heaven."

  "Tell me somewhat that happened thyself, poor soul! All this is good,but yet no tidings to me. Do I not know thee of old?"

  "Well, let me see. At first I was much dazzled by the sun-light,and could not go abroad (owl!), but that is passed; and good ReichtHeynes--humph!"

  "What of her?"

  "This to thine ear only, for she is a diamond. Her voice goes throughme like a knife, and all voices seem loud but thine, which is so mellowsweet. Stay, now I'll fit ye with tidings; I spake yesterday with an oldman that conceits he is ill-tempered, and sweats to pass for such withothers, but oh! so threadbare, and the best good heart beneath."

  "Why, 'tis a parish of angels," said Margaret ironically.

  "Then why dost thou keep out on't?" retorted Gerard. "Well, he wastelling me there was no parish in Holland where the devil hath suchpower as at Gouda; and among his instances, says he, 'We had a hermit,the holiest in Holland; but being Gouda, the devil came for him thisweek, and took him, bag and baggage; not a ha'porth of him left but agoodish piece of his skin, just for all the world like a hedgehog's, anda piece o' old iron furbished up.'"

  Margaret smiled.

  "Ay, but," continued Gerard, "the strange thing is, the cave has verilyfallen in; and had I been so perverse as resist thee, it had assur
edlyburied me dead there where I had buried myself alive. Therefore inthis I see the finger of Providence, condemning my late, approving mypresent, way of life. What sayest thou?"

  "Nay, can I pierce the like mysteries? I am but a woman."

  "Somewhat more, methinks. This very tale proves thee my guardian angel,and all else avouches it, so come to Gouda manse."

  "Well, go you on, I'll follow."

  "Nay, in the cart with me."

  "Not so."

  "Why?"

  "Can I tell why and wherefore, being a woman? All I know is I seem--tofeel--to wish--to come alone."

  "So be it then. I leave thee the cart, being, as thou sayest, a woman,and I'll go a-foot, being a man again, with the joyful tidings of thycoming."

  When Margaret reached the manse the first thing she saw was the twoGerards together, the son performing his capriccios on the plot, and thefather slouching on a chair, in his great hat, with pencil and paper,trying very patiently to sketch him.

  After a warm welcome he showed her his attempts. "But in vain I striveto fix him," said he, "for he is incarnate quick silver, Yet do but notehis changes, infinite, but none ungracious; all is supple and easy; andhow he melteth from one posture to another," He added presently, "Woe toilluminators I looking on thee, sir baby, I see what awkward, lopsided,ungainly toads I and my fellows painted missals with, and called themcherubs and seraphs," Finally he threw the paper away in despair, andMargaret conveyed it secretly into her bosom.

  At night when they sat round the peat fire he bade them observe howbeautiful the brass candlesticks and other glittering metals were inthe glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this observation,"And oh the sheets I lie in here," said he, "often my consciencepricketh me, and saith, 'Who art thou to lie in lint like web of snow?'Dives was ne'er so flaxed as I. And to think that there are folk inthe world that have all the beautiful things which I have here yet notcontent. Let them pass six months in a hermit's cell, seeing no face ofman, then will they find how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is,and eke that men and women are God's fairest creatures. Margaret wasalways fair, but never to my eye so bright as now." Margaret shook herhead incredulously, Gerard continued, "My mother was ever good and kind,but I noted not her exceeding comeliness till now."

  "Nor I neither," said Catherine; "a score years ago I might pass in acrowd, but not now."

  Gerard declared to her that each age had its beauty. "See this mild greyeye," said he, "that hath looked motherly love upon so many of us,all that love hath left its shadow, and that shadow is a beauty whichdefieth Time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See thiswell-shaped brow, where comliness Just passeth into reverence. Artbeautiful in my eyes, mother dear."

  "And that is enough for me, my darling, 'Tis time you were in bed,child. Ye have to preach the morn."

  And Reicht Heynes and Catherine interchanged a look which said, "We twohave an amiable maniac to superintend; calls everything beautiful."

  The next day was Sunday, and they heard him preach in his own church. Itwas crammed with persons, who came curious, but remained devout. Neverwas his wonderful gift displayed more powerfully; he was himself deeplymoved by the first sight of all his people, and his bowels yearned overthis flock he had so long neglected. In a single sermon, which lastedtwo hours and seemed to last but twenty minutes, he declared the wholescripture: he terrified the impenitent and thoughtless, confirmed thewavering, consoled the bereaved and the afflicted, uplifted the heartof the poor, and when he ended, left the multitude standing rapt, andunwilling to believe the divine music of his voice and soul had ceased.

  Need I say that two poor women in a corner sat entranced, with streamingeyes.

  "Wherever gat he it all?" whispered Catherine, with her apron to hereyes. "By our Lady not from me."

  As soon as they were by themselves Margaret threw her arms roundCatherine's neck and kissed her.

  "Mother, mother, I am not quite a happy woman, but oh I am a proud one."

  And she vowed on her knees never by word or deed to let her love comebetween this young saint and Heaven.

  Reader, did you ever stand by the seashore after a storm, when the windhappens to have gone down suddenly? The waves cannot cease with theircause; indeed, they seem at first to the ear to lash the sounding shoremore fiercely than while the wind blew. Still we are conscious thatinevitable calm has begun, and is now but rocking them to sleep. So itwas with those true and tempest-tossed lovers from that eventful nightwhen they went hand in hand beneath the stars from Gouda hermitage toGouda manse.

  At times a loud wave would every now and then come roaring, but it wasonly memory's echo of the tempest that had swept their lives; the stormitself was over, and the boiling waters began from that moment to godown, down, down, gently, but inevitably.

  This image is to supply the place of interminable details that would betedious and tame. What best merits attention at present is the generalsituation, and the strange complication of feeling that arose from it.History itself, though a far more daring story-teller than romance,presents few things so strange(1) as the footing on which Gerard andMargaret now lived for many years. United by present affection, pastfamiliarity, and a marriage irregular but legal; separated by HolyChurch and by their own consciences, which sided unreservedly withHoly Church; separated by the Church, but united by a living pledge ofaffection, lawful in every sense at its date.

  And living but a few miles from one another, and she calling his mother"mother," For some years she always took her boy to Gouda on Sunday,returning home at dark, Go when she would, it was always fete at Goudamanse, and she was received like a little queen. Catherine in these dayswas nearly always with her, and Eli very often, Tergou had so little totempt them compared with Rotterdam; and at last they left it altogether,and set up in the capital.

  And thus the years glided; so barren now of striking incidents, so voidof great hopes, and free from great fears, and so like one another,that without the help of dates I could scarcely indicate the progress oftime.

  However, early next year, 1471, the Duchess of Burgundy, with the opendissent, but secret connivance of the Duke, raised forces to enable herdethroned brother, Edward the Fourth of England, to invade that kingdom;our old friend Denys thus enlisted, and passing through Rotterdam to theships, heard on his way that Gerard was a priest, and Margaret alone. Onthis he told Margaret that marriage was not a habit of his, but that ashis comrade had put it out of his own power to keep troth, he felt boundto offer to keep it for him; "for a comrade's honour is dear to us asour own," said he.

  She stared, then smiled, "I choose rather to be still thy she-comrade,"said she; "closer acquainted, we might not agree so well," And in hercharacter of she-comrade she equipped him with a new sword of Antwerpmake, and a double handful of silver. "I give thee no gold," said she,"for 'tis thrown away as quick as silver, and harder to win back. Heavensend thee safe out of all thy perils; there be famous fair women yonderto beguile thee, with their faces, as well as men to hash thee withtheir axes."

  He was hurried on board at La Vere, and never saw Gerard at that time.

  In 1473 Sybrandt began to fail. His pitiable existence had beensweetened by his brother's inventive tenderness and his own contentedspirit, which, his antecedents considered, was truly remarkable, As forGerard, the day never passed that he did not devote two hours to him;reading or singing to him, praying with him, and drawing him about in asoft carriage Margaret and he had made between them. When the poor soulfound his end near, he begged Margaret might be sent for. She cameat once, and almost with his last breath he sought once more thatforgiveness she had long ago accorded. She remained by him till thelast; and he died, blessing and blessed, in the arms of the two truelovers he had parted for life. Tantum religio scit suadere boni.

  1474 there was a wedding in Margaret's house, Luke Peterson and ReichtHeynes.

  This may seem less strange if I give the purport of the dialogueinterrupted some time back.

&nbsp
; Margaret went on to say, "Then in that case you can easily make himfancy you, and for my sake you must, for my conscience it pricketh me,and I must needs fit him with a wife, the best I know." Margaret theninstructed Reicht to be always kind and good-humoured to Luke; and shewould be a model of peevishness to him, "But be not thou so simple asrun me down," said she, "Leave that to me. Make thou excuses for me; Iwill make myself black enow."

  Reicht received these instructions like an order to sweep a room, andobeyed them punctually.

  When they had subjected poor Luke to this double artillery for a coupleof years, he got to look upon Margaret as his fog and wind, and Reichtas his sunshine; and his affections transferred themselves, he scarceknew how or when.

  On the wedding day Reicht embraced Margaret, and thanked her almostwith tears. "He was always my fancy," said she, "from the first hour Iclapped eyes on him."

  "Heyday, you never told me that. What, Reicht, are you as sly as therest?"

  "Nay, nay," said Reicht eagerly; "but I never thought you would reallypart with him to me. In my country the mistress looks to be servedbefore the maid."

  Margaret settled them in her shop, and gave them half the profits.

  1476 and 7 were years of great trouble to Gerard, whose consciencecompelled him to oppose the Pope. His Holiness, siding with the GreyFriars in their determination to swamp every palpable distinctionbetween the Virgin Mary and her Son, bribed the Christian world into hiscrotchet by proffering pardon of all sins to such as would add tothe Ave Mary this clause: "and blessed be thy Mother Anna, from whom,without blot of sin, proceeded thy virgin flesh."

  Gerard, in common with many of the northern clergy, held this sentenceto be flat heresy. He not only refused to utter it in his church, butwarned his parishioners against using it in private; and he refused tocelebrate the new feast the Pope invented at the same time, viz., "thefeast of the miraculous conception of the Virgin."

  But this drew upon him the bitter enmity of the Franciscans, and theywere strong enough to put him into more than one serious difficulty, andinflict many a little mortification on him. In emergencies he consultedMargaret, and she always did one of two things, either she said, "I donot see my way," and refused to guess; or else she gave him advice thatproved wonderfully sagacious. He had genius, but she had marvelloustact.

  And where affection came in and annihilated the woman's judgment, hestepped in his turn to her aid. Thus though she knew she was spoilinglittle Gerard, and Catherine was ruining him for life, she would notpart with him, but kept him at home, and his abilities uncultivated. Andthere was a shrewd boy of nine years, instead of learning to workand obey, playing about and learning selfishness from their infiniteunselfishness, and tyrannizing with a rod of iron over two women, bothof them sagacious and spirited, but reduced by their fondness for him tothe exact level of idiots.

  Gerard saw this with pain, and interfered with mild but firmremonstrance; and after a considerable struggle prevailed, and gotlittle Gerard sent to the best school in Europe, kept by one Haaghe atDeventer: this was in 1477. Many tears were shed, but the great progressthe boy made at that famous school reconciled Margaret in some degree,and the fidelity of Reicht Heynes, now her partner in business, enabledher to spend weeks at a time hovering over her boy at Deventer.

  And so the years glided; and these two persons, subjected to as strongand constant a temptation as can well be conceived, were each other'sguardian angels, and not each other's tempters.

  To be sure the well-greased morality of the next century, which taughtthat solemn vows to God are sacred in proportion as they are reasonable,had at that time entered no single mind; and the alternative to thesetwo minds was self-denial or sacrilege.

  It was a strange thing to hear them talk with unrestrained tenderness toone another of their boy, and an icy barrier between themselves all thetime.

  Eight years had now passed thus, and Gerard, fairly compared with men ingeneral, was happy.

  But Margaret was not.

  The habitual expression of her face was a sweet pensiveness, butsometimes she was irritable and a little petulant. She even snappedGerard now and then. And when she went to see him, if a monk was withhim she would turn her back and go home. She hated the monks for havingparted Gerard and her, and she inoculated her boy with a contempt forthem which lasted him till his dying day.

  Gerard bore with her like an angel. He knew her heart of gold, and hopedthis ill gust would blow over.

  He himself being now the right man in the right place this many years,loving his parishioners, and beloved by them, and occupied from morntill night in good works, recovered the natural cheerfulness of hisdisposition. To tell the truth, a part of his jocoseness was a blind; hewas the greatest peace-maker, except Mr. Harmony in the play, that everwas born. He reconciled more enemies in ten years than his predecessorshad done in three hundred; and one of his manoeuvres in the peacemakingart was to make the quarrellers laugh at the cause of quarrel. So didhe undermine the demon of discord. But independently of that, he reallyloved a harmless joke. He was a wonderful tamer of animals, squirrels,bares, fawns, etc. So half in jest a parishioner who had a mule supposedto be possessed with a devil gave it him and said, "Tame this vagabone,parson, if ye can." Well, in about six months, Heaven knows how, henot only tamed Jack, but won his affections to such a degree, that Jackwould come running to his whistle like a dog.

  One day, having taken shelter from a shower on the stone settle outsidea certain public-house, he heard a toper inside, a stranger, boasting hecould take more at a draught than any man in Gouda. He instantly marchedin and said, "What, lads, do none of ye take him up for the honour ofGouda? Shall it be said that there came hither one from another parish agreater sot than any of us? Nay, then, I your parson do take him up.Go to, I'll find thee a parishioner shall drink more at a draught thanthou."

  A bet was made; Gerard whistled; in clattered Jack--for he was taughtto come into a room with the utmost composure--and put his nose into hisbacker's hand.

  "A pair of buckets!" shouted Gerard, "and let us see which of these twosons of asses can drink most at a draught."

  On another occasion two farmers had a dispute whose hay was the best.Failing to convince each other, they said, "We'll ask parson" for bythis time he was their referee in every mortal thing.

  "How lucky you thought of me!" said Gerard, "Why, I have got one stayingwith me who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a doublehandful apiece."

  So when they came, he had them into the parlour, and put each bundle ona chair. Then he whistled, and in walked Jack.

  "Lord a mercy!" said one of the farmers.

  "Jack," said the parson, in the tone of conversation, "just tell uswhich is the best hay of these two."

  Jack sniffed them both, and made his choice directly, proving hissincerity by eating every morsel. The farmers slapped their thighs, andscratched their heads. "To think of we not thinking o' that," And theyeach sent Jack a truss.

  So Gerard got to be called the merry parson of Gouda. But Margaret, wholike most loving women had no more sense of humour than a turtle-dove,took this very ill. "What!" said she to herself, "is there nothing soreat the bottom of his heart that he can go about playing the zany?" Shecould understand pious resignation and content, but not mirth, in truelovers parted. And whilst her woman's nature was perturbed by thisgust (and women seem more subject to gusts than men) came that terribleanimal, a busybody, to work upon her. Catherine saw she was not happy,and said to her, "Your boy is gone from you. I would not live alone allmy days if I were you."

  "He is more alone than I," sighed Margaret.

  "Oh, a man is a man, but a woman is a woman. You must not think all ofhim and none of yourself. Near is your kirtle, but nearer is your smock.Besides, he is a priest, and can do no better. But you are not a priest.He has got his parish, and his heart is in that. Bethink thee! Timeflies; overstay not thy market. Wouldst not like to have three or fourmore little darlings about thy knee now they have ro
bbed thee of poorlittle Gerard, and sent him to yon nasty school?" And so she worked upona mind already irritated.

  Margaret had many suitors ready to marry her at a word or even alook, and among them two merchants of the better class, Van Schelt andOostwagen. "Take one of those two," said Catherine.

  "Well, I will ask Gerard if I may," said Margaret one day, with a floodof tears; "for I cannot go on the way I am."

  "Why, you would never be so simple as ask him?"

  "Think you I would be so wicked as marry without his leave?"

  Accordingly she actually went to Gouda, and after hanging her head, andblushing, and crying, and saying she was miserable, told him his motherwished her to marry one of those two; and if he approved of her marryingat all, would he use his wisdom, and tell her which he thought would bethe kindest to the little Gerard of those two; for herself, she did notcare what became of her.

  Gerard felt as if she had put a soft hand into his body and torn hisheart out with it. But the priest with a mighty effort mastered the man.In a voice scarcely audible he declined this responsibility. "I am not asaint or a prophet," said he; "I might advise thee ill. I shall read themarriage service for thee," faltered he; "it is my right. No other wouldpray for thee as I should. But thou must choose for thyself; and oh! letme see thee happy. This four months past thou hast not been happy."

  "A discontented mind is never happy," said Margaret.

  She left him, and he fell on his knees, and prayed for help from above.

  Margaret went home pale and agitated. "Mother," said she, "never mentionit to me again, or we shall quarrel."

  "He forbade you? Well, more shame for him, that is all."

  "He forbid me? He did not condescend so far. He was as noble as Iwas paltry. He would not choose for me for fear of choosing me an illhusband. But he would read the service for my groom and me; that was hisright. Oh, mother, what a heartless creature I was!"

  "Well, I thought not he had that much sense."

  "Ah, you go by the poor soul's words, but I rate words as air whenthe face speaketh to mine eye. I saw the priest and the true lovera-fighting in his dear face, and his cheek pale with the strife, and oh!his poor lip trembled as he said the stout-hearted words--Oh! oh! oh!oh! oh! oh! oh!" And Margaret burst into a violent passion of tears.

  Catherine groaned. "There, give it up without more ado," said she. "Youtwo are chained together for life; and if God is merciful, that won't befor long; for what are you neither maid, wife, nor widow."

  "Give it up?" said Margaret; "that was done long ago. All I think of nowis comforting him; for now I have been and made him unhappy too, wretchand monster that I am."

  So the next day they both went to Gouda. And Gerard, who had beenpraying for resignation all this time, received her with peculiartenderness as a treasure he was to lose; but she was agitated and eagerto let him see without words that she would never marry, and she fawnedon him like a little dog to be forgiven. And as she was going away shemurmured, "Forgive! and forget! I am but a woman."

  He misunderstood her, and said, "All I bargain for is, let me see theecontent; for pity's sake, let me not see thee unhappy as I have thiswhile."

  "My darling, you never shall again," said Margaret, with streaming eyes,and kissed his hand.

  He misunderstood this too at first; but when month after monthpassed, and he heard no more of her marriage, and she came to Goudacomparatively cheerful, and was even civil to Father Ambrose, a mildbenevolent monk from the Dominican convent hard by--then he understoodher; and one day he invited her to walk alone with him in the sacredpaddock; and before I relate what passed between them, I must give itshistory.

  When Gerard had been four or five days at the manse, looking out ofwindow he uttered an exclamation of joy. "Mother, Margaret, here is oneof my birds: another, another: four, six, nine. A miracle! a miracle!"

  "Why, how can you tell your birds from their fellows?" said Catherine.

  "I know every feather in their wings. And see; there is the littledarling whose claw I gilt, bless it!"

  And presently his rapture took a serious turn, and he saw Heaven'sapprobation in this conduct of the birds as he did in the fall of thecave. This wonderfully kept alive his friendship for animals; and heenclosed a paddock, and drove all the sons of Cain from it with threatsof excommunication, "On this little spot of earth we'll have no murder,"said he. He tamed leverets and partridges, and little birds, and hares,and roe-deer. He found a squirrel with a broken leg; he set it withinfinite difficulty and patience; and during the cure showed itrepositories of acorns, nuts, chestnuts, etc. And this squirrel got welland went off, but visited him in hard weather, and brought a mate, andnext year little squirrels were found to have imbibed their parents'sentiments, and of all these animals each generation was tamer than thelast. This set the good parson thinking, and gave him the true clue tothe great successes of mediaeval hermits in taming wild animals.

  He kept the key of this paddock, and never let any man but himselfenter it; nor would he even let little Gerard go there without him orMargaret. "Children are all little Cains," said he. In this oasis, then,he spoke to Margaret, and said, "Dear Margaret, I have thought more thanever of thee of late, and have asked myself why I am content, and thouunhappy."

  "Because thou art better, wiser, holier than I; that is all," saidMargaret promptly.

  "Our lives tell another tale," said Gerard thoughtfully. "I know thygoodness and thy wisdom too well to reason thus perversely. Also I knowthat I love thee as dear as thou, I think, lovest me. Yet am I happierthan thou. Why is this so?"

  "Dear Gerard, I am as happy as a woman can hope to be this side of thegrave."

  "Not so happy as I. Now for the reason. First, then, I am a priest, andthis, the one great trial and disappointment God giveth me along with somany joys, why, I share it with a multitude. For alas! I am not the onlypriest by thousands that must never hope for entire earthly happiness.Here, then, thy lot is harder than mine."

  "But Gerard, I have my child to love. Thou canst not fill thy heart withhim as his mother can, So you may set this against you."

  "And I have ta'en him from thee; it was cruel; but he would have brokenthy heart one day if I had not. Well then, sweet one, I come to wherethe shoe pincheth, methinks. I have my parish, and it keeps my heartin a glow from morn till night. There is scarce an emotion that my folkstir not up in me many times a day. Often their sorrows make me weep,sometimes their perversity kindles a little wrath, and their absurditymakes me laugh, and sometimes their flashes of unexpected goodness doset me all of a glow, and I could hug 'em. Meantime thou, poor soul,sittest with heart--

  "Of lead, Gerard; of very lead."

  "See now how unkind thy lot compared with mine, Now how if thou couldstbe persuaded to warm thyself at the fire that warmeth me."

  "Ah, if I could?"

  "Hast but to will it. Come among my folk. Take in thine hand the alms Iset aside, and give it with kind words; hear their sorrows: they shallshow you life is full of troubles, and as thou sayest truly, no man orwoman without their thorn this side the grave. Indoors I have a map ofGouda parish. Not to o'erburden thee at first, I will put twenty housenunder thee with their folk. What sayest thou? but for thy wisdom I haddied a dirty maniac,' and ne'er seen Gouda manse, nor pious peace. Wiltprofit in turn by what little wisdom I have to soften her lot to whom Ido owe all?"

  Margaret assented warmly, and a happy thing it was for the littledistrict assigned to her; it was as if an angel had descended on them.Her fingers were never tired of knitting or cutting for them, herheart of sympathizing with them. And that heart expanded and waved itsdrooping wings; and the glow of good and gentle deed began to spreadover it; and she was rewarded in another way by being brought into morecontact with Gerard, and also with his spirit. All this time malicioustongues had not been idle. "If there is nought between them more thanmeets the eye, why doth she not marry?" etc. And I am sorry to say ourold friend Joan Ketel was one of these coarse sceptics. And now
onewinter evening she got on a hot scent. She saw Margaret and Gerardtalking earnestly together on the Boulevard. She whipped behind a tree."Now I'll hear something," said she; and so she did. It was winter;there had been one of those tremendous floods followed by a sharpfrost, and Gerard in despair as to where he should lodge forty or fiftyhouseless folk out of the piercing cold. And now it was, "Oh, dear, dearMargaret, what shall I do? The manse is full of them, and a sharp frostcoming on this night."

  Margaret reflected, and Joan listened.

  "You must lodge them in the church," said Margaret quietly.

  "In the church? Profanation."

  "No; charity profanes nothing, not even a church; soils nought, not evena church. To-day is but Tuesday. Go save their lives, for a bitter nightis coming. Take thy stove into the church, and there house them. We willdispose of them here and there ere the lord's day."

  "And I could not think of that; bless thee, sweet Margaret, thy mind isstronger than mine, and readier."

  "Nay, nay, a woman looks but a little way, therefore she sees clear.I'll come over myself to-morrow."

  And on this they parted with mutual blessings.

  Joan glided home remorseful.

  And after that she used to check all surmises to their discredit."Beware," she would say, "lest some angel should blister thy tongue.Gerard and Margaret paramours? I tell ye they are two saints which meetin secret to plot charity to the poor."

  In the summer of 1481 Gerard determined to provide against similardisasters recurring to his poor. Accordingly he made a great hole in hisincome, and bled his friends (zealous parsons always do that) to build alarge Xenodochium to receive the victims of flood or fire. Giles and allhis friends were kind, but all was not enough; when lo! the Dominicanmonks of Gouda to whom his parlour and heart had been open for years,came out nobly, and put down a handsome sum to aid the charitable vicar.

  "The dear good souls," said Margaret; "who would have thought it?"

  "Any one who knows them," said Gerard, "Who more charitable than monks?"

  "Go to! They do but give the laity back a pig of their own sow."

  "And what more do I? What more doth the duke?"

  Then the ambitious vicar must build almshouses for decayed true men intheir old age close to the manse, that he might keep and feed them, aswell as lodge them. And his money being gone, he asked Margaret for afew thousand bricks and just took off his coat and turned builder; andas he had a good head, and the strength of a Hercules, with the zeal ofan artist, up rose a couple of almshouses parson built.

  And at this work Margaret would sometimes bring him his dinner, andadd a good bottle of Rhenish. And once seeing him run up a plank with awheelbarrow full of bricks which really most bricklayers would havegone staggering under, she said, "Times are changed since I had to carrylittle Gerard for thee."

  "Ay, dear one, thanks to thee."

  When the first home was finished, the question was who they should putinto it; and being fastidious over it like a new toy, there was muchhesitation. But an old friend arrived in time to settle this question.

  As Gerard was passing a public-house in Rotterdam one day, he heard awell-known voice, He looked up, and there was Denys of Burgundy, butsadly changed; his beard stained with grey, and his clothes worn andragged; he had a cuirass still, and gauntlets, but a staff instead of anarbalest, To the company he appeared to be bragging and boasting, but inreality he was giving a true relation of Edward the Fourth's invasion ofan armed kingdom with 2000 men, and his march through the country witharmies capable of swallowing him looking on, his battles at Tewkesburyand Barnet, and reoccupation of his capital and kingdom in three monthsafter landing at the Humber with a mixed handful of Dutch, English, andBurgundians.

  In this, the greatest feat of arms the century had seen, Denys hadshone; and whilst sneering at the warlike pretensions of Charles theBold, a duke with an itch but no talent for fighting, and proclaimingthe English king the first captain of the age, did not forget to exalthimself.

  Gerard listened with eyes glittering affection and fun. "And now," saidDenys, "after all these feats, patted on the back by the gallant youngPrince of Gloucester, and smiled on by the great captain himself, hereI am lamed for life; by what? by the kick of a horse, and this night Iknow not where I shall lay my tired bones. I had a comrade once in theseparts that would not have let me lie far from him; but he turned priestand deserted his sweetheart, so 'tis not likely he would remember hiscomrade. And ten years play sad havoc with our hearts, and limbs, andall." Poor Denys sighed, and Gerard's bowels yearned over him.

  "What words are these?" he said, with a great gulp in his throat. "Whogrudges a brave soldier supper and bed? Come home with me!"

  "Much obliged, but I am no lover of priests."

  "Nor I of soldiers; but what is supper and bed between two true men?"

  "Not much to you, but something to me. I will come."

  "In one hour," said Gerard, and went in high spirits to Margaret, andtold her the treat in store, and she must come and share it. She mustdrive his mother in his little carriage up to the manse with all speed,and make ready an excellent supper. Then he himself borrowed a cart, anddrove Denys up rather slowly, to give the women time.

  On the road Denys found out this priest was a kind soul, so told him histrouble, and confessed his heart was pretty near broken. "The great useour stout hearts, and arms, and lives till we are worn out, and thenfling us away like broken tools." He sighed deeply, and it cost Gerarda great struggle not to hug him then and there, and tell him. But hewanted to do it all like a story book. Who has not had this fancy oncein his life? Why Joseph had it; all the better for us.

  They landed at the little house. It was as clean as a penny, the hearthblazing, and supper set.

  Denys brightened up. "Is this your house, reverend sir?"

  "Well, 'tis my work, and with these hands, but 'tis your house."

  "Ah, no such luck," said Denys, with a sigh.

  "But I say ay," shouted Gerard. "And what is more I--" (gulp) "say--"(gulp) "COURAGE, CAMARADE, LE DIABLE EST MORT!"

  Denys started, and almost staggered. "Why, what?" he stammered,"w-wh-who art thou, that bringest me back the merry words and merry daysof my youth?" and he was greatly agitated.

  "My poor Denys, I am one whose face is changed, but nought else; to myheart, dear, trusty comrade, to my heart," And he opened his arms, withthe tears in his eyes. But Denys came close to him, and peered in hisface, and devoured every feature; and when he was sure it was reallyGerard, he uttered a cry so vehement it brought the women running fromthe house, and fell upon Gerard's neck, and kissed him again and again,and sank on his knees, and laughed and sobbed with joy so terribly,that Gerard mourned his folly in doing dramas. But the women with theirgentle soothing ways soon composed the brave fellow, and he sat smiling,and holding Margaret's hand and Gerard's, And they all supped together,and went to their beds with hearts warm as a toast; and the brokensoldier was at peace, and in his own house, and under his comrade'swing.

  His natural gaiety returned, and he resumed his consigne after eightyears' disuse, and hobbled about the place enlivening it; but offendedthe parish mortally by calling the adored vicar comrade, and nothing butcomrade.

  When they made a fuss about this to Gerard, he just looked in theirfaces and said, "What does it matter? Break him of swearing, and youshall have my thanks."

  This year Margaret went to a lawyer to make her will, for without this,she was told, her boy might have trouble some day to get his own, notbeing born in lawful wedlock. The lawyer, however, in conversation,expressed a different opinion.

  "This is the babble of churchmen," said he, "Yours is a perfectmarriage, though an irregular one."

  He then informed her that throughout Europe, excepting only the southernpart of Britain, there were three irregular marriages, the highest ofwhich was hers, viz., a betrothal before witnesses, "This," said he, "ifnot followed by matrimonial intercourse, is a marriage complete in form,but i
ncomplete in substance. A person so betrothed can forbid any otherbanns to all eternity. It has, however, been set aside where a partyso betrothed contrived to get married regularly, and children were bornthereafter. But such a decision was for the sake of the offspring,and of doubtful justice. However, in your case the birth of yourchild closes that door, and your marriage is complete both in form andsubstance. Your course, therefore, is to sue for your conjugal rights;it will be the prettiest case of the century. The law is all on ourside, the Church all on theirs. If you come to that, the old Batavianlaw, which compelled the clergy to marry, hath fallen into disuse, butwas never formally repealed."

  Margaret was quite puzzled. "What are you driving at, sir? Who am I togo to law with?"

  "Who is the defendant? Why, the vicar of Gouda."

  "Alas, poor soul! And for what shall I law him?"

  "Why, to make him take you into his house, and share bed and board withyou, to be sure."

  Margaret turned red as fire, "Gramercy for your rede," said she, "What,is yon a woman's part? Constrain a man to be hers by force? That ismen's way of wooing, not ours. Say I were so ill a woman as ye think me,I should set myself to beguile him, not to law him;" and she departed,crimson with shame and indignation.

  "There is an impracticable fool for you," said the man of art.

  Margaret had her will drawn elsewhere, and made her boy safe frompoverty, marriage or no marriage.

  These are the principal incidents that in ten whole years befell twopeaceful lives, which in a much shorter period had been so thronged withadventures and emotions.

  Their general tenor was now peace, piety, the mild content that lasts,not the fierce bliss ever on tiptoe to depart, and above all, Christiancharity.

  On this sacred ground these two true lovers met with an uniformity anda kindness of sentiment which went far to soothe the wound in their ownhearts, To pity the same bereaved; to hunt in couples all the illsin Gouda, and contrive and scheme together to remedy all that wereremediable; to use the rare insight into troubled hearts which theirown troubles had given them, and use it to make others happier thanthemselves--this was their daily practice. And in this blessed causetheir passions for one another cooled a little, but their affectionincreased.

  From this time Margaret entered heart and soul into Gerard's piouscharities, that affection purged itself of all mortal dross. And asit had now long out-lived scandal and misapprehension, one would havethought that so bright an example of pure self-denying affection was toremain long before the world, to show men how nearly religious faith,even when not quite reasonable, and religious charity, which is alwaysreasonable, could raise two true lovers' hearts to the loving heartsof the angels of heaven. But the great Disposer of events orderedotherwise.

  Little Gerard rejoiced both his parents' hearts by the extraordinaryprogress he made at Alexander Haaghe's famous school at Deventer.

  The last time Margaret returned from visiting him, she came to Gerardflushed with pride. "Oh, Gerard, he will be a great man one day, thanksto thy wisdom in taking him from us silly women. A great scholar, oneZinthius, came to see the school and judge the scholars, and didn't ourGerard stand up, and not a line in Horace or Terence could Zinthius citebut the boy would follow him with the rest. 'Why, 'tis a prodigy,' saysthat great scholar; and there was his poor mother stood by and heard it.And he took our Gerard in his arms, and kissed him; and what think youhe said?"

  "Nay, I know not."

  "'Holland will hear of thee one day; and not Holland only, but all theworld,' Why what a sad brow!"

  "Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child iswise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heavendoth often break our idols."

  "Make thy mind easy," said Margaret. "Heaven will never rob me of mychild. What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if anyill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week. The Lord Heknows this, and He will leave me my boy."

  A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing inhis ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he wastold quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was atDeventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh.

  His heart turned cold within him. News did not gallop in those days. Thefatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings wouldreach Gouda. He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her thathe was gone to fetch little Gerard to stay at the manse a little while,and would she see a bed prepared, for he should be back next day. And sohe hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happilyover. He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reachedDeventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went at once to the school.The boy had been taken away.

  As he left the school he caught sight of Margaret's face at the windowof a neighbouring house she always lodged at when she came to Deventer.

  He ran hastily to scold her and pack both her and the boy out of theplace.

  To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margarethad been there, but was gone.

  "Gone, woman?" said Gerard indignantly, "art not ashamed to say so? Why,I saw her but now at the window."

  "Oh, if you saw her--"

  A sweet voice above said, "Stay him not, let him enter." It wasMargaret.

  Gerard ran up the stairs to her, and went to take her hand, She drewback hastily.

  He looked astounded.

  "I am displeased," she said coldly. "What makes you here? Know you notthe plague is in the town?"

  "Ay, dear Margaret; and came straightway to take our boy away."

  "What, had he no mother?"

  "How you speak to me! I hoped you knew not."

  "What, think you I leave my boy unwatched? I pay a trusty woman thatnotes every change in his cheek when I am not here, and lets me know, Iam his mother."

  "Where is he?"

  "In Rotterdam, I hope, ere this."

  "Thank Heaven! And why are you not there?"

  "I am not fit for the journey; never heed me; go you home on theinstant; I'll follow. For shame of you to come here risking yourprecious life."

  "It is not so precious as thine," said Gerard. "But let that pass; wewill go home together, and on the instant."

  "Nay, I have some matters to do in the town. Go thou at once, and I willfollow forthwith."

  "Leave thee alone in a plague-stricken town? To whom speak you, dearMargaret?"

  "Nay, then, we shall quarrel, Gerard."

  "Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard quarrelling! Why, it takes two toquarrel, and we are but one."

  With this Gerard smiled on her sweetly. But there was no kind responsiveglance. She looked cold, gloomy, and troubled.

  He sighed, and sat patiently down opposite her with his face all puzzledand saddened. He said nothing, for he felt sure she would explain hercapricious conduct, or it would explain itself.

  Presently she rose hastily, and tried to reach her bedroom, but on theway she staggered and put out her hand. He ran to her with a cry ofalarm. She swooned in his arms. He laid her gently on the ground, andbeat her cold hands, and ran to her bedroom, and fetched water, andsprinkled her pale face. His own was scarce less pale, for in a basin hehad seen water stained with blood; it alarmed him, he knew not why.She was a long time ere she revived, and when she did she found Gerardholding her hand, and bending over her with a look of infinite concernand tenderness. She seemed at first as if she responded to it, but thenext moment her eyes dilated, and she cried--"Ah, wretch, leave my hand;how dare you touch me?"

  "Heaven help her!" said Gerard. "She is not herself."

  "You will not leave me, then, Gerard?" said she faintly. "Alas! why do Iask? Would I leave thee if thou wert--At least touch me not, and then Iwill let thee bide, and see the last of poor Margaret. She ne'er spokeharsh to thee before, sweetheart, and she never will again."

  "Alas! what mean these dark words, these wild and troubled looks?" saidGerard, clasping his
hands.

  "My poor Gerard," said Margaret, "forgive me that I spoke so to thee. Iam but a woman, and would have spared thee a sight will make thee weep."She burst into tears. "Ah, me!" she cried, weeping, "that I cannot keepgrief from thee; there is a great sorrow before my darling, and thistime I shall not be able to come and dry his eyes."

  "Let it come, Margaret, so it touch not thee," said Gerard, trembling.

  "Dearest," said Margaret solemnly, "call now religion to thine aid andmine. I must have died before thee one day, or else outlived thee and sodied of grief."

  "Died? thou die? I will never let thee die. Where is thy pain? What isthy trouble?"

  "The plague," she said calmly. Gerard uttered a cry of horror, andstarted to his feet; she read his thought. "Useless," said she quietly."My nose hath bled; none ever yet survived to whom that came along withthe plague. Bring no fools hither to babble over the body they cannotsave. I am but a woman; I love not to be stared at; let none see me diebut thee."

  And even with this a convulsion seized her, and she remained sensiblebut speechless a long time.

  And now for the first time Gerard began to realize the frightful truth,and he ran wildly to and fro, and cried to Heaven for help, as drowningmen cry to their fellow-creatures. She raised herself on her arm, andset herself to quiet him.

  She told him she had known the torture of hopes and fears, and wasresolved to spare him that agony. "I let my mind dwell too much on thedanger," said she, "and so opened my brain to it, through which doorwhen this subtle venom enters it makes short work. I shall not bespotted or loathsome, my poor darling; God is good, and spares theethat; but in twelve hours I shall be a dead woman. Ah, look not so, butbe a man; be a priest! Waste not one precious minute over my body! it isdoomed; but comfort my parting soul."

  Gerard, sick and cold at heart, kneeled down, and prayed for help fromHeaven to do his duty.

  When he rose from his knees his face was pale and old, but deadly calmand patient. He went softly and brought her bed into the room, and laidher gently down and supported her head with pillows. Then he prayed byher side the prayers for the dying, and she said Amen to each prayer.Then for some hours she wandered, but when the fell disease had quitemade sure of its prey, her mind cleared, and she begged Gerard to shriveher. "For oh, my conscience it is laden," she said sadly.

  "Confess thy sins to me, my daughter: let there be no reserve."

  "My father," said she sadly, "I have one great sin on my breast thismany years. E'en now that death is at my heart I can scarce own it. Butthe Lord is debonair; if thou wilt pray to Him, perchance He may forgiveme."

  "Confess it first, my daughter."

  "I--alas!"

  "Confess it!"

  "I deceived thee. This many years I have deceived thee."

  Here tears interrupted her speech.

  "Courage, my daughter, courage," said Gerard kindly, overpowering thelover in the priest.

  She hid her face in her hands, and with many sighs told him it was shewho had broken down the hermit's cave with the help of Jorian Ketel, "I,shallow, did it but to hinder thy return thither; but when thou sawesttherein the finger of God, I played the traitress, and said, 'While hethinks so, he will ne'er leave Gouda manse;' and I held my tongue. Oh,false heart."

  "Courage, my daughter; thou dost exaggerate a trivial fault."

  "Ah, but 'tis not all, The birds."

  "Well?"

  "They followed thee not to Gouda by miracle, but by my treason. I said,he will ne'er be quite happy without his birds that visited him in hiscell; and I was jealous of them, and cried, and said, these foul littlethings, they are my child's rivals. And I bought loaves of bread, andJorian and me we put crumbs at the cave door, and thence went sprinklingthem all the way to the manse, and there a heap. And my wiles succeeded,and they came, and thou wast glad, and I was pleased to see theeglad; and when thou sawest in my guile the finger of Heaven, wicked,deceitful, I did hold my tongue. But die deceiving thee? ah, no, I couldnot. Forgive me if thou canst; I was but a woman; I knew no better atthe time. 'Twas writ in my bosom with a very sunbeam. ''Tis good for himto bide at Gouda manse.'"

  "Forgive thee, sweet innocent?" sobbed Gerard; "what have I to forgive?Thou hadst a foolish froward child to guide to his own weal, anddidst all this for the best, I thank thee and bless thee. But as thyconfessor, all deceit is ill in Heaven's pure eyes. Therefore thouhast done well to confess and report it; and even on thy confessionand penitence the Church through me absolves thee. Pass to thy graverfaults."

  "My graver faults? Alas! alas! Why, what have I done to compare? I amnot an ill woman, not a very ill one. If He can forgive me deceivingthee, He can well forgive me all the rest ever I did."

  Being gently pressed, she said she was to blame not to have done moregood in the world. "I have just begun to do a little," she said, "andnow I must go. But I repine not, since 'tis Heaven's will, only I am soafeard thou wilt miss me." And at this she could not restrain her tears,though she tried hard.

  Gerard struggled with his as well as he could; and knowing her life ofpiety, purity, and charity, and seeing that she could not in herpresent state realise any sin but her having deceived him, gave herfull absolution, Then he put the crucifix in her hand, and while heconsecrated the oil, bade her fix her mind neither on her merits nor herdemerits, but on Him who died for her on the tree.

  She obeyed him with a look of confiding love and submission.

  And he touched her eyes with the consecrated oil, and prayed aloudbeside her.

  Soon after she dosed.

  He watched beside her, more dead than alive himself.

  When the day broke she awoke, and seemed to acquire some energy. Shebegged him to look in her box for her marriage lines and for a picture,and bring them both to her. He did so. She then entreated him by allthey had suffered for each other, to ease her mind by making a solemnvow to execute her dying requests.

  He vowed to obey them to the letter.

  "Then, Gerard, let no creature come here to lay me out. I could not bearto be stared at; my very corpse would blush. Also I would not be madea monster of for the worms to sneer at as well as feed on. Also my veryclothes are tainted, and shall to earth with me. I am a physician'sdaughter; and ill becomes me kill folk, being dead, which did so littlegood to men in the days of health; wherefore lap me in lead, the way Iam, and bury me deep! yet not so deep but what one day thou mayst findthe way, and lay thy bones by mine.

  "Whiles I lived I went to Gouda but once or twice a week. It cost me notto go each day. Let me gain this by dying, to be always at dear Gouda,in the green kirkyard.

  "Also they do say the spirit hovers where the body lies; I would have myspirit hover near thee, and the kirkyard is not far from the manse. I amso afeard some ill will happen thee, Margaret being gone.

  "And see, with mine own hands I place my marriage lines in my bosom. Letno living hand move them, on pain of thy curse and mine. Then when theangel comes for me at the last day, he shall say, this is an honestwoman, she hath her marriage lines (for you know I am your lawful wife,though Holy Church hath come between us), and he will set me where thehonest women be. I will not sit among ill women, no, not in heavenfor their mind is not my mind, nor their soul my soul. I have stood,unbeknown, at my window, and heard their talk."

  For some time she was unable to say any more, but made signs to him thatshe had not done.

  At last she recovered her breath, and bade him look at the picture.

  It was the portrait he had made of her when they were young together,and little thought to part so soon. He held it in his hands and lookedat it, but could scarce see it. He had left it in fragments, but now itwas whole.

  "They cut it to pieces, Gerard; but see, Love mocked at their knives.

  "I implore thee with my dying breath, let this picture hang ever inthine eye.

  "I have heard that such as die of the plague, unspotted, yet after deathspots have been known to come out; and oh, I could not bear thy lastmemo
ry of me to be so. Therefore, as soon as the breath is out of mybody, cover my face with this handkerchief, and look at me no more tillwe meet again, 'twill not be so very long. O promise."

  "I promise," said Gerard, sobbing.

  "But look on this picture instead. Forgive me; I am but a woman. I couldnot bear my face to lie a foul thing in thy memory. Nay, I must havethee still think me as fair as I was true. Hast called me an angel onceor twice; but be just! did I not still tell thee I was no angel, butonly a poor simple woman, that whiles saw clearer than thou because shelooked but a little way, and that loves thee dearly, and never loved butthee, and now with her dying breath prays thee indulge her in this, thouthat art a man."

  "I will, I will. Each word, each wish, is sacred."

  "Bless thee! Bless thee! So then the eyes that now can scarce see thee,they are so troubled by the pest, and the lips that shall not touch theeto taint thee, will still be before thee as they were when we were youngand thou didst love me."

  "When I did love thee, Margaret! Oh, never loved I thee as now."

  "Hast not told me so of late."

  "Alas! hath love no voice but words? I was a priest; I had charge ofthy soul; the sweet offices of a pure love were lawful; words of loveimprudent at the least. But now the good fight is won, ah me! Oh mylove, if thou hast lived doubting of thy Gerard's heart, die not so; fornever was woman loved so tenderly as thou this ten years past."

  "Calm thyself, dear one," said the dying woman, with a heavenly smile."I know it; only being but a woman, I could not die happy till I hadheard thee say so. Ah! I have pined ten years for those sweet words.Hast said them, and this is the happiest hour of my life. I had to dieto get them; well, I grudge not the price."

  From this moment a gentle complacency rested on her fading features. Butshe did not speak.

  Then Gerard, who had loved her soul so many years, feared lest sheshould expire with a mind too fixed on earthly affection.

  "Oh my daughter," he cried, "my dear daughter, if indeed thou lovest meas I love thee, give me not the pain of seeing thee die with thy pioussoul fixed on mortal things.

  "Dearest lamb of all my fold, for whose soul I must answer, oh think notnow of mortal love, but of His who died for thee on the tree. Oh, letthy last look be heavenwards, thy last word a word of prayer."

  She turned a look of gratitude and obedience on him. "What saint?"she murmured: meaning doubtless, "what saint should she invoke as anintercessor."

  "He to whom the saints themselves do pray."

  She turned on him one more sweet look of love and submission, and puther pretty hands together in a prayer like a child.

  "Jesu!"

  This blessed word was her last. She lay with her eyes heavenwards, andher hands put together.

  Gerard prayed fervently for her passing spirit. And when he had prayed along time with his head averted, not to see her last breath, all seemedunnaturally still. He turned his head fearfully. It was so.

  She was gone.

  Nothing left him now but the earthly shell of as constant, pure, andloving a spirit as eve' adorned the earth.

  (1) Let me not be understood to apply this to the bare outline of the relation. Many bishops and priests, and not a few popes, had wives and children as laymen; and entering orders were parted from the wives and not from the children. But in the case before the reader are the additional features of a strong surviving attachment on both sides, and of neighbourhood, besides that here the man had been led into holy orders by a false statement of the woman's death. On a summary of all the essential features, the situation was, to the best of my belief, unique.

  CHAPTER XCVII

  A priest is never more thoroughly a priest than in the chamber of death,Gerard did the last offices of the Church for the departed, just ashe should have done them for his smallest parishioner. He did thismechanically, then sat down stupefied by the sudden and tremendous blow,and not yet realizing the pangs of bereavement. Then in a transport ofreligious enthusiasm he kneeled and thanked Heaven for her Christianend.

  And then all his thought was to take her away from strangers, and layher in his own churchyard. That very evening a covered cart with onehorse started for Gouda, and in it was a coffin, and a broken-heartedman lying with his arms and chin resting on it.

  The mourner's short-lived energy had exhausted itself in the necessarypreparations, and now he lay crushed, clinging to the cold lead thatheld her.

  The man of whom the cart was hired walked by the horse's head and didnot speak to him, and when he baited the horse spoke but in a whisperrespecting that mute agony. But when he stopped for the night, he andthe landlord made a well-meaning attempt to get the mourner away to takesome rest and food. But Gerard repulsed them, and when they persisted,almost snarled at them, like a faithful dog, and clung to the cold leadall night. So then they drew a cloak over him, and left him in peace.

  And at noon the sorrowful cart came up to the manse, and there werefull a score of parishioners collected with one little paltry trouble oranother. They had missed the parson already. And when they saw what itwas, and saw their healer so stricken down, they raised a loud wail ofgrief, and it roused him from his lethargy of woe, and he saw where hewas, and their faces, and tried to speak to them, "Oh, my children! mychildren!" he cried; but choked with anguish, could say no more.

  Yet the next day, spite of all remonstrances, he buried her himself,and read the service with a voice that only trembled now and then, Manytears fell upon her grave. And when the service ended he stayed therestanding like a statue, and the people left the churchyard out ofrespect.

  He stood like one in a dream till the sexton, who was, as most men are,a fool, began to fill in the grave without giving him due warning.

  But at the sound of earth falling on her Gerard uttered a piercingscream.

  The sexton forbore.

  Gerard staggered and put his hand to his breast. The sexton supportedhim, and called for help.

  Jorian Ketel, who lingered near mourning his benefactress, ran into thechurchyard, and the two supported Gerard into the manse.

  "Ah, Jorian! good Jorian!" said he, "something snapped within me; Ifelt it, and I heard it; here, Jorian, here;" and he put his hand to hisbreast.