The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

hostility was softened. “You admire it? I forgive you for frightening us.”

      “Am I in a mad-house?” said Ghysbrecht Van Swieten thoroughly puzzled. “You show me a picture of the girl; and you say he painted it; and that is a proof he cannot love her. Why, they all paint their sweethearts, painters do.”

      “A picture of the girl?” exclaimed Kate, shocked. “Fie! this is no girl; this is our blessed Lady.”

      “No, no; it is Margaret Brandt.”

      “Oh blind! It is the Queen of Heaven.”

      “No; only of Sevenbergen village.”

      “Profane man! behold her crown!”

      “Silly child! look at her red hair! Would the Virgin be seen in red hair? She who had the pick of all the colours ten thousand years before the world began.”

      At this moment an anxious face was insinuated round the edge of the open door: it was their neighbour Peter Buyskens.

      “What is to do?” said he in a cautious whisper. “We can hear you all across the street. What on earth is to do?”

      “Oh, neighbour! What is to do? Why, here is the burgomaster blackening our Gerard.”

      “Stop!” cried Van Swieten. “Peter Buyskens is come in the nick of time. He knows father and daughter both. They cast their glamour on him.”

      “What! is she a witch too?”

      “Else the egg takes not after the bird. Why is her father called the magician? I tell you they bewitched this very Peter here; they cast unholy spells on him, and cured him of the colic: now, Peter, look and tell me who is that? and you be silent, women, for a moment, if you can; who is it, Peter?”

      “Well, to be sure!” said Peter, in reply; and his eye seemed fascinated by the picture.

      “Who is it?” repeated Ghysbrecht impetuously.

      Peter Buyskens smiled. “Why, you know as well as I do; but what have they put a crown on her for? I never saw her in a crown, for my part.”

      “Man alive! Can't you open your great jaws, and just speak a wench's name plain out to oblige three people?”

      “I'd do a great deal more to oblige one of you than that, burgomaster. If it isn't as natural as life!”

      “Curse the man! he won't, he won't—curse him!”

      “Why, what have I done now?”

      “Oh, sir!” said little Kate, “for pity's sake tell us; are these the features of a living woman, of—of—Margaret Brandt?”

      “A mirror is not truer, my little maid.”

      “But is it she, sir, for very certain?”

      “Why, who else should it be?”

      “Now, why couldn't you say so at once?” snarled Ghysbrecht.

      “I did say so, as plain as I could speak,” snapped Peter; and they growled over this small bone of contention so zealously, that they did not see Catherine and her daughter had thrown their aprons over their heads, and were rocking to and fro in deep distress. The next moment Elias came in from the shop, and stood aghast. Catherine, though her face was covered, knew his footstep.

      “That is my poor man,” she sobbed. “Tell him, good Peter Buyskens, for I have not the courage.”

      Elias turned pale. The presence of the burgomaster in his house, after so many years of coolness, coupled with his wife's and daughter's distress, made him fear some heavy misfortune.

      “Richart! Jacob!” he gasped.

      “No, no!” said the burgomaster; “it is nearer home, and nobody is dead or dying, old friend.”

      “God bless you, burgomaster! Ah! something has gone off my breast that was like to choke me. Now, what is the matter?”

      Ghysbrecht then told him all that he told the women, and showed the picture in evidence.

      “Is that all?” said Eli, profoundly relieved. “What are ye roaring and bellowing for? It is vexing—it is angering, but it is not like death, not even sickness. Boys will be boys. He will outgrow that disease: 'tis but skin-deep.”

      But when Ghysbrecht told him that Margaret was a girl of good character; that it was not to be supposed she would be so intimate if marriage had not been spoken of between them, his brow darkened.

      “Marriage! that shall never be,” said he sternly. “I'll stay that; ay, by force, if need be—as I would his hand lifted to cut his throat. I'd do what old John Koestein did t'other day.”

      “And what is that, in Heaven's name?” asked the mother, suddenly removing her apron.

      It was the burgomaster who replied:

      “He made me shut young Albert Koestein up in the prison of the Stadthouse till he knocked under. It was not long: forty-eight hours, all alone, on bread and water, cooled his hot stomach. 'Tell my father I am his humble servant,' says he, 'and let me into the sun once more—the sun is worth all the wenches in the world.'”

      “Oh, the cruelty of men!” sighed Catherine.

      “As to that, the burgomaster has no choice: it is the law. And if a father says, 'Burgomaster, lock up my son,' he must do it. A fine thing it would be if a father might not lock up his own son.”

      “Well, well! it won't come to that with me and my son. He never disobeyed me in his life: he never shall, Where is he? It is past supper-time. Where is he, Kate?”

      “Alas! I know not, father.”

      “I know,” said Ghysbrecht; “he is at Sevenbergen. My servant met him on the road.”

      Supper passed in gloomy silence. Evening descended—no Gerard! Eight o'clock came—no Gerard! Then the father sent all to bed, except Catherine.

      “You and I will walk abroad, wife, and talk over this new care.”

      “Abroad, my man, at this time? Whither?”

      “Why, on the road to Sevenbergen.”

      “Oh no; no hasty words, father. Poor Gerard! he never vexed you before.”

      “Fear me not. But it must end; and I am not one that trusts to-morrow with to-day's work.”

      The old pair walked hand in hand; for, strange is it may appear to some of my readers, the use of the elbow to couples walking was not discovered in Europe till centuries after this. They sauntered on a long time in silence. The night was clear and balmy. Such nights, calm and silent, recall the past from the dead.

      “It is a many years since we walked so late, my man,” said Catherine softly.

      “Ay, sweetheart, more than we shall see again (is he never coming, I wonder?)”

      “Not since our courting days, Eli.”

      “No. Ay, you were a buxom lass then.”

      “And you were a comely lad, as ever a girl's eye stole a look at. I do suppose Gerard is with her now, as you used to be with me. Nature is strong, and the same in all our generations.”

      “Nay, I hope he has left her by now, confound her, or we shall be here all night.”

      “Eli!”

      “Well, Kate?”

      “I have been happy with you, sweetheart, for all our rubs—much happier, I trow, than if I had—been—a—a—nun. You won't speak harshly to the poor child? One can be firm without being harsh.”

      “Surely.”

      “Have you been happy with me, my poor Eli?”

      “Why, you know I have. Friends I have known, but none like thee. Buss