Cloister and the Hearth — Chapter 96, Part 2
He kept the key of this paddock, and never let any man but himself enter it; nor would he even let little Gerard go there without him or Margaret.
“Children are all little Cains,” said he.
In this oasis, then, he spoke to Margaret, and said, “Dear Margaret, I have thought more than ever of thee of late, and have asked myself why I am content, and thou unhappy.
” “Because thou art better, wiser, holier than I; that is all,” said Margaret promptly.
“Our lives tell another tale,” said Gerard thoughtfully.
“I know thy goodness and thy wisdom too well to reason thus perversely.
Also I know that I love thee as dear as thou, I think, lovest me.
Yet am I happier than thou.
Why is this so?
” “Dear Gerard, I am as happy as a woman can hope to be this side of the grave.
” “Not so happy as I. Now for the reason.
First, then, I am a priest, and this, the one great trial and disappointment God giveth me along with so many joys, why, I share it with a multitude.
For alas!
I am not the only priest 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 with him 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 broken thy heart one day if I had not.
Well then, sweet one, I come to where the shoe pincheth, methinks.
I have my parish, and it keeps my heart in a glow from morn till night.
There is scarce an emotion that my folk stir not up in me many times a day.
Often their sorrows make me weep, sometimes their perversity kindles a little wrath, and their absurdity makes me laugh, and sometimes their flashes of unexpected goodness do set 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 couldst be 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 I set aside, and give it with kind words; hear their sorrows: they shall show you life is full of troubles, and as thou sayest truly, no man or woman without their thorn this side the grave.
Indoors I have a map of Gouda parish.
Not to o'erburden thee at first, I will put twenty housen under thee with their folk.
What sayest thou?
but for thy wisdom I had died a dirty maniac,' and ne'er seen Gouda manse, nor pious peace.
Wilt profit in turn by what little wisdom I have to soften her lot to whom I do owe all?
” Margaret assented warmly, and a happy thing it was for the little district assigned to her; it was as if an angel had descended on them.
Her fingers were never tired of knitting or cutting for them, her heart of sympathizing with them.
And that heart expanded and waved its drooping wings; and the glow of good and gentle deed began to spread over it; and she was rewarded in another way by being brought into more contact with Gerard, and also with his spirit.
All this time malicious tongues had not been idle.
“If there is nought between them more than meets the eye, why doth she not marry?
” etc. And I am sorry to say our old friend Joan Ketel was one of these coarse sceptics.
And now one winter evening she got on a hot scent.
She saw Margaret and Gerard talking 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 sharp frost, and Gerard in despair as to where he should lodge forty or fifty houseless folk out of the piercing cold.
And now it was, “Oh, dear, dear Margaret, what shall I do?
The manse is full of them, and a sharp frost coming 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 even a church.
To-day is but Tuesday.
Go save their lives, for a bitter night is coming.
Take thy stove into the church, and there house them.
We will dispose of them here and there ere the lord's day.
” “And I could not think of that; bless thee, sweet Margaret, thy mind is stronger 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 meet in secret to plot charity to the poor.
” In the summer of 1481 Gerard determined to provide against similar disasters recurring to his poor.
Accordingly he made a great hole in his income, and bled his friends (zealous parsons always do that) to build a large Xenodochium to receive the victims of flood or fire.
Giles and all his friends were kind, but all was not enough; when lo!
the Dominican monks 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 in their old age close to the manse, that he might keep and feed them, as well as lodge them.
And his money being gone, he asked Margaret for a few thousand bricks and just took off his coat and turned builder; and as he had a good head, and the strength of a Hercules, with the zeal of an artist, up rose a couple of almshouses parson built.
And at this work Margaret would sometimes bring him his dinner, and add a good bottle of Rhenish.
And once seeing him run up a plank with a wheelbarrow full of bricks which really most bricklayers would have gone staggering under, she said, “Times are changed since I had to carry little Gerard for thee.
” “Ay, dear one, thanks to thee.
” When the first home was finished, the question was who they should put into it; and being fastidious over it like a new toy, there was much hesitation.
But an old friend arrived in time to settle this question.
As Gerard was passing a public-house in Rotterdam one day, he heard a well-known voice, He looked up, and there was Denys of Burgundy, but sadly changed; his beard stained with grey, and his clothes worn and ragged; he had a cuirass still, and gauntlets, but a staff instead of an arbalest, To the company he appeared to be bragging and boasting, but in reality he was giving a true relation of Edward the Fourth's invasion of an armed kingdom with 2000 men, and his march through the country with armies capable of swallowing him looking on, his battles at Tewkesbury and Barnet, and reoccupation of his capital and kingdom in three months after landing at the Humber with a mixed handful of Dutch, English, and Burgundians.
In this, the greatest feat of arms the century had seen, Denys had shone; and whilst sneering at the warlike pretensions of Charles the Bold, a duke with an itch but no talent for fighting, and proclaiming the English king the first captain of the age, did not forget to exalt himself.
Gerard listened with eyes glittering affection and fun.
“And now,” said Denys, “after all these feats, patted on the back by the gallant young Prince of Gloucester, and smiled on by the great captain himself, here I am lamed for life; by what?
by the kick of a horse, and this night I know not where I shall lay my tired bones.
I had a comrade once in these parts that would not have let me lie far from him; but he turned priest and deserted his sweetheart, so 'tis not likely he would remember his comrade.
And ten years play sad havoc with our hearts, and limbs, and all.
” Poor Denys sighed, and Gerard's bowels yearned over him.
“What words are these?
” he said, with a great gulp in his throat.
“Who grudges 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, and told her the treat in store, and she must come and share it.
She must drive 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, and drove Denys up rather slowly, to give the women time.
On the road Denys found out this priest was a kind soul, so told him his trouble, and confessed his heart was pretty near broken.
“The great use our stout hearts, and arms, and lives till we are worn out, and then fling us away like broken tools.
” He sighed deeply, and it cost Gerard a great struggle not to hug him then and there, and tell him.
But he wanted to do it all like a story book.
Who has not had this fancy once in 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 hearth blazing, 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 days of my youth?
” and he was greatly agitated.
“My poor Denys, I am one whose face is changed, but nought else; to my heart, dear, trusty comrade, to my heart,” And he opened his arms, with the tears in his eyes.
But Denys came close to him, and peered in his face, and devoured every feature; and when he was sure it was really Gerard, he uttered a cry so vehement it brought the women running from the 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 their gentle 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 broken soldier was at peace, and in his own house, and under his comrade's wing.
His natural gaiety returned, and he resumed his consigne after eight years' disuse, and hobbled about the place enlivening it; but offended the parish mortally by calling the adored vicar comrade, and nothing but comrade.
When they made a fuss about this to Gerard, he just looked in their faces and said, “What does it matter?
Break him of swearing, and you shall 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, not being born in lawful wedlock.
The lawyer, however, in conversation, expressed a different opinion.
“This is the babble of churchmen,” said he, “Yours is a perfect marriage, though an irregular one.
” He then informed her that throughout Europe, excepting only the southern part of Britain, there were three irregular marriages, the highest of which was hers, viz.
, a betrothal before witnesses, “This,” said he, “if not followed by matrimonial intercourse, is a marriage complete in form, but incomplete in substance.
A person so betrothed can forbid any other banns to all eternity.
It has, however, been set aside where a party so betrothed contrived to get married regularly, and children were born thereafter.
But such a decision was for the sake of the offspring, and of doubtful justice.
However, in your case the birth of your child closes that door, and your marriage is complete both in form and substance.
Your course, therefore, is to sue for your conjugal rights;
it will be the prettiest case of the century.
The law is all on our side, the Church all on theirs.
If you come to that, the old Batavian law, which compelled the clergy to marry, hath fallen into disuse, but was never formally repealed.
” Margaret was quite puzzled.
“What are you driving at, sir?
Who am I to go 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 with you, 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 is men'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 from poverty, marriage or no marriage.
These are the principal incidents that in ten whole years befell two peaceful lives, which in a much shorter period had been so thronged with adventures 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, Christian charity.
On this sacred ground these two true lovers met with an uniformity and a kindness of sentiment which went far to soothe the wound in their own hearts, To pity the same bereaved; to hunt in couples all the ills in Gouda, and contrive and scheme together to remedy all that were remediable; to use the rare insight into troubled hearts which their own troubles had given them, and use it to make others happier than themselves--this was their daily practice.
And in this blessed cause their passions for one another cooled a little, but their affection increased.
From this time Margaret entered heart and soul into Gerard's pious charities, that affection purged itself of all mortal dross.
And as it had now long out-lived scandal and misapprehension, one would have thought that so bright an example of pure self-denying affection was to remain long before the world, to show men how nearly religious faith, even when not quite reasonable, and religious charity, which is always reasonable, could raise two true lovers' hearts to the loving hearts of the angels of heaven.
But the great Disposer of events ordered otherwise.
Little Gerard rejoiced both his parents' hearts by the extraordinary progress he made at Alexander Haaghe's famous school at Deventer.
The last time Margaret returned from visiting him, she came to Gerard flushed with pride.
“Oh, Gerard, he will be a great man one day, thanks to thy wisdom in taking him from us silly women.
A great scholar, one Zinthius, came to see the school and judge the scholars, and didn't our Gerard stand up, and not a line in Horace or Terence could Zinthius cite but the boy would follow him with the rest.
'Why, 'tis a prodigy,' says that 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 you he said?
” “Nay, I know not.
” “'Holland will hear of thee one day; and not Holland only, but all the world,' Why what a sad brow!
” “Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child is wise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heaven doth often break our idols.
” “Make thy mind easy,” said Margaret.
“Heaven will never rob me of my child.
What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if any ill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week.
The Lord He knows this, and He will leave me my boy.
” A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing in his ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he was told quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was at Deventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh.
His heart turned cold within him.
News did not gallop in those days.
The fatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings would reach Gouda.
He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her that he 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 so he hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happily over.
He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reached Deventer, 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 window of 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 the place.
To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margaret had 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 was Margaret.
Gerard ran up the stairs to her, and went to take her hand, She drew back hastily.
He looked astounded.
“I am displeased,” she said coldly.
“What makes you here?
Know you not the 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 that notes every change in his cheek when I am not here, and lets me know, I am 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 the instant; I'll follow.
For shame of you to come here risking your precious life.
” “It is not so precious as thine,” said Gerard.
“But let that pass; we will go home together, and on the instant.
” “Nay, I have some matters to do in the town.
Go thou at once, and I will follow forthwith.
” “Leave thee alone in a plague-stricken town?
To whom speak you, dear Margaret?
” “Nay, then, we shall quarrel, Gerard.
” “Methinks I see Margaret and Gerard quarrelling!
Why, it takes two to quarrel, and we are but one.
” With this Gerard smiled on her sweetly.
But there was no kind responsive glance.
She looked cold, gloomy, and troubled.
He sighed, and sat patiently down opposite her with his face all puzzled and saddened.
He said nothing, for he felt sure she would explain her capricious conduct, or it would explain itself.
Presently she rose hastily, and tried to reach her bedroom, but on the way she staggered and put out her hand.
He ran to her with a cry of alarm.
She swooned in his arms.
He laid her gently on the ground, and beat her cold hands, and ran to her bedroom, and fetched water, and sprinkled her pale face.
His own was scarce less pale, for in a basin he had 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 Gerard holding her hand, and bending over her with a look of infinite concern and tenderness.
She seemed at first as if she responded to it, but the next 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 I ask?
Would I leave thee if thou wert--At least touch me not, and then I will let thee bide, and see the last of poor Margaret.
She ne'er spoke harsh to thee before, sweetheart, and she never will again.
” “Alas!
what mean these dark words, these wild and troubled looks?
” said Gerard, clasping his hands.
“My poor Gerard,” said Margaret, “forgive me that I spoke so to thee.
I
am 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 keep grief from thee; there is a great sorrow before my darling, and this time 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 and mine.
I must have died before thee one day, or else outlived thee and so died of grief.
” “Died?
thou die?
I will never let thee die.
Where is thy pain?
What is thy trouble?
” “The plague,” she said calmly.
Gerard uttered a cry of horror, and started to his feet; she read his thought.
“Useless,” said she quietly.
“My nose hath bled; none ever yet survived to whom that came along with the plague.
Bring no fools hither to babble over the body they cannot save.
I am but a woman; I love not to be stared at; let none see me die but thee.
” And even with this a convulsion seized her, and she remained sensible but 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 drowning men cry to their fellow-creatures.
She raised herself on her arm, and set herself to quiet him.
She told him she had known the torture of hopes and fears, and was resolved to spare him that agony.
“I let my mind dwell too much on the danger,” said she, “and so opened my brain to it, through which door when this subtle venom enters it makes short work.
I shall not be spotted or loathsome, my poor darling; God is good, and spares thee that; but in twelve hours I shall be a dead woman.
Ah, look not so, but be a man; be a priest!
Waste not one precious minute over my body!
it is doomed; but comfort my parting soul.
” Gerard, sick and cold at heart, kneeled down, and prayed for help from Heaven to do his duty.
When he rose from his knees his face was pale and old, but deadly calm and patient.
He went softly and brought her bed into the room, and laid her gently down and supported her head with pillows.
Then he prayed by her 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 quite made sure of its prey, her mind cleared, and she begged Gerard to shrive her.
“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 this many years.
E'en now that death is at my heart I can scarce own it.
But the Lord is debonair; if thou wilt pray to Him, perchance He may forgive me.
” “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 the lover in the priest.
She hid her face in her hands, and with many sighs told him it was she who 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 sawest therein the finger of God, I played the traitress, and said, 'While he thinks 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 his cell; and I was jealous of them, and cried, and said, these foul little things, they are my child's rivals.
And I bought loaves of bread, and Jorian and me we put crumbs at the cave door, and thence went sprinkling them 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 thee glad; 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 could not.
Forgive me if thou canst; I was but a woman; I knew no better at the time.
'Twas writ in my bosom with a very sunbeam.
''Tis good for him to bide at Gouda manse.'
