The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

of mine, is Margaret Van Eyck.”

      Miscellaneous Hans then diverged into forty topics.

      Sybrandt stole out of the company, and went in search of Cornelis.

      They put their heads together over the news: Italy was an immense distance off. If they could only keep him there?

      “Keep him there? Nothing would keep him long from his Margaret.”

      “Curse her!” said Sybrandt. “Why didn't she die when she was about it?”

      “She die? She would outlive the pest to vex us.” And Cornelis was wroth at her selfishness in not dying, to oblige.

      These two black sheep kept putting their heads together, and tainting each other worse and worse, till at last their corrupt hearts conceived a plan for keeping Gerard in Italy all his life, and so securing his share of their father's substance.

      But when they had planned it they were no nearer the execution: for that required talent: so iniquity came to a standstill. But presently, as if Satan had come between the two heads, and whispered into the right ear of one and the left of the other simultaneously, they both burst out—

      “THE BURGOMASTER!”

      They went to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, and he received them at once: for the man who is under the torture of suspense catches eagerly at knowledge. Certainty is often painful, but seldom, like suspense, intolerable.

      “You have news of Gerard?” said he eagerly.

      Then they told about the letter and Hans Memling. He listened with restless eye. “Who writ the letter?”

      “Margaret Van Eyck,” was the reply; for they naturally thought the contents were by the same hand as the superscription.

      “Are ye sure?” And he went to a drawer and drew out a paper written by Margaret Van Eyck while treating with the burgh for her house. “Was it writ like this?”

      “Yes. 'Tis the same writing,” said Sybrandt boldly.

      “Good. And now what would ye of me?” said Ghysbrecht, with beating heart, but a carelessness so well feigned that it staggered them. They fumbled with their bonnets, and stammered and spoke a word or two, then hesitated and beat about the bush, and let out by degrees that they wanted a letter written, to say something that might keep Gerard in Italy; and this letter they proposed to substitute in Hans Memling's wallet for the one he carried. While these fumbled with their bonnets and their iniquity, and vacillated between respect for a burgomaster, and suspicion that this one was as great a rogue as themselves, and somehow or other, on their side against Gerard, pros and cons were coursing one another to and fro in the keen old man's spirit. Vengeance said let Gerard come back and feel the weight of the law. Prudence said keep him a thousand miles off. But then Prudence said also, why do dirty work on a doubtful chance? Why put it in the power of these two rogues to tarnish your name? Finally, his strong persuasion that Gerard was in possession of a secret by means of which he could wound him to the quick, coupled with his caution, found words thus: “It is my duty to aid the citizens that cannot write. But for their matter I will not be responsible. Tell me, then, what I shall write.”

      “Something about this Margaret.”

      “Ay, ay! that she is false, that she is married to another, I'll go bail.”

      “Nay, burgomaster, nay! not for all the world!” cried Sybrandt; “Gerard would not believe it, or but half, and then he would come back to see. No; say that she is dead.”

      “Dead! what, at her age, will he credit that?”

      “Sooner than the other. Why she was nearly dead: so it is not to say a downright lie, after all.”

      “Humph! And you think that will keep him in Italy?”

      “We are sure of it, are we not, Cornelis?”

      “Ay,” said Cornelis, “our Gerard will never leave Italy now he is there. It was always his dream to get there. He would come back for his Margaret, but not for us. What cares he for us? He despises his own family; always did.”

      “This would be a bitter pill to him,” said the old hypocrite.

      “It will be for his good in the end,” replied the young one.

      “What avails Famine wedding Thirst?” said Cornelis.

      “And the grief you are preparing for him so coolly?” Ghysbrecht spoke sarcastically, but tasted his own vengeance all the time.

      “Oh, a lie is not like a blow with a curtal axe. It hacks no flesh, and breaks no bones.”

      “A curtal axe?” said Sybrandt; “no, nor even like a stroke with a cudgel.” And he shot a sly envenomed glance at the burgomaster's broken nose.

      Ghysbrecht's face darkened with ire when this adder's tongue struck his wound. But it told, as intended: the old man bristled with hate.

      “Well,” said he, “tell me what to write for you, and I must write it; but take notice, you bear the blame if aught turns amiss. Not the hand which writes, but the tongue which dictates, doth the deed.”

      The brothers assented warmly, sneering within. Ghysbrecht then drew his inkhorn towards him, and laid the specimen of Margaret Van Eyck's writing before him, and made some inquiries as to the size and shape of the letter, when an unlooked-for interruption occurred; Jorian Ketel burst hastily into the room, and looked vexed at not finding him alone.

      “Thou seest I have matter on hand, good fellow.”

      “Ay; but this is grave. I bring good news; but 'tis not for every ear.”

      The burgomaster rose, and drew Jorian aside into the embrasure of his deep window, and then the brothers heard them converse in low but eager tones. It ended by Ghysbrecht sending Jorian out to saddle his mule. He then addressed the black sheep with a sudden coldness that amazed them—

      “I prize the peace of households; but this is not a thing to be done in a hurry: we will see about it, we will see.”

      “But, burgomaster, the man will be gone. It will be too late.”

      “Where is he?”

      “At the hostelry, drinking.”

      “Well, keep him drinking! We will see, we will see.” And he sent them off discomfited.

      To explain all this we must retrograde a step. This very morning then, Margaret Brandt had met Jorian Ketel near her own door. He passed her with a scowl. This struck her, and she remembered him.

      “Stay,” said she. “Yes! it is the good man who saved him. Oh! why have you not been near me since? And why have you not come for the parchments? Was it not true about the hundred crowns?”

      Jorian gave a snort; but, seeing her face that looked so candid, began to think there might be some mistake. He told her he had come, and how he had been received.

      “Alas!” said she, “I knew nought of this. I lay at Death's door. She then invited him to follow her, and took him into the garden and showed him the spot where the parchments were buried. Martin was for taking them up, but I would not let him. He put them there; and I said none should move them but you, who had earned them so well of him and me.”

      “Give me a spade!” cried Jorian eagerly. “But stay! No; he is a suspicious man. You are sure they are there still?”

      “I will openly take the blame if human hand hath touched them.”

      “Then keep them but two hours more, I prithee, good Margaret,” said Jorian, and ran off to the Stadthouse of Tergou a joyful man.

      The burgomaster jogged along towards Sevenbergen, with Jorian striding beside him, giving him assurance that in an hour's time the missing parchments would be in his hand.

      “Ah, master!” said he, “lucky for us it wasn't a thief that took them.”

      “Not