The Cloister and the Hearth | Page 9

He laughed back to
her. "Mind the pot," said he, "and don't let it spill, for Heaven's sake:
there's a cleft stick to hold it safe with;" and with this he set off running
towards a corn-field at some distance.
Whilst he was gone, there came by, on a mule with rich purple
housings, an old man redolent of wealth. The purse at his girdle was
plethoric, the fur on his tippet was ermine, broad and new.

It was Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, the burgomaster of Tergou.
He was old, and his face furrowed. He was a notorious miser, and
looked one generally. But the idea of supping with the Duke raised him
just now into manifest complacency. Yet at the sight of the faded old
man and his bright daughter sitting by a fire of sticks, the smile died
out of his face, and he wore a strange look of pain and uneasiness. He
reined in his mule.
"Why, Peter,- Margaret," said he, almost fiercely, "what mummery is
this?" Peter was going to answer, but Margaret interposed hastily, and
said: "My father was exhausted, so I am warming something to give
him strength before we go on."
"What! reduced to feed by the roadside like the Bohemians," said
Ghysbrecht, and his hand went into his purse; but it did not seem at
home there; it fumbled uncertainly, afraid too large a coin might stick
to a finger and come out.
At this moment who should come bounding up but Gerard. He had two
straws in his hand, and he threw himself down by the fire and relieved
Margaret of the cooking part: then suddenly recognizing the
burgomaster, he coloured all over. Ghysbrecht Van Swieten started and
glared at him, and took his hand out of his purse. "Oh!" said he bitterly,
"I am not wanted," and went slowly on, casting a long look of suspicion
on Margaret, and hostility on Gerard, that was not very intelligible.
However, there was something about it that Margaret could read
enough to blush at, and almost toss her head. Gerard only stared with
surprise. "By St. Bavon, I think the old miser grudges us three our quart
of soup," said he. When the young man put that interpretation on
Ghysbrecht's strange and meaning look, Margaret was greatly relieved,
and smiled gaily on the speaker.
Meanwhile Ghysbrecht plodded on, more wretched in his wealth than
these in their poverty. And the curious thing is, that the mule, the
purple housings, and one-half the coin in that plethoric purse, belonged
not to Ghysbrecht Van Swieten, but to that faded old man and that
comely girl, who sat by a roadside fire to he fed by a stranger. They did

not know this; but Ghysbrecht knew it, and carried in his heart a
scorpion of his own begetting; that scorpion is remorse - the remorse
that, not being penitence, is incurable, and ready for fresh misdeeds
upon a fresh temptation.
Twenty years ago, when Ghysbrecht Van Swieten was a hard and
honest man, the touchstone opportunity came to him, and he did an act
of heartless roguery. It seemed a safe one. It had hitherto proved a safe
one, though he had never felt safe. To-day he had seen youth, enterprise,
and, above all, knowledge, seated by fair Margaret and her father on
terms that look familiar and loving.
And the fiends are at big ear again.
CHAPTER II
"The soup is hot," said Gerard.
"But how are we to get it to our mouths?" inquired the senior,
despondingly.
"Father, the young man has brought us straws." And Margaret smiled
slily.
"Ay, ay!" said the old man; "but my poor bones are stiff, and indeed the
fire is too hot for a body to kneel over with these short straws. St. John
the Baptist, but the young man is adroit!"
For, while he stated his difficulty, Gerard removed it. He untied in a
moment the knot on his breast, took his hat off, put a stone into each
corner of it, then, wrapping his hand in the tail of his jerkin, whipped
the flask off the fire, wedged it in between the stones, and put the hat
under the old man's nose with a merry smile. The other tremulously
inserted the pipe of rye-straw and sucked. Lo and behold, his wan,
drawn face was seen to light up more and more, till it quite glowed; and
as soon as he had drawn a long breath:
"Hippocrates and Galen!" he cried, "'tis a soupe au vin - the restorative

of restoratives. Blessed be the nation that invented it, and the woman
that made it, and the young man who brings it to fainting folk. Have a
suck, my girl, while I relate to our young host the history and virtues of