The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade
all I have suffered for him, and what I came here this night to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call him father. Ah, Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I have thought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised; and now my own is despised, Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he would have a good chance.”
“Well, he is not far off,” said Reicht Heynes; but somehow she did not say it with alacrity.
“Speak not to me of any man,” said Margaret bitterly; “I hate them all.”
“For the sake of one?”
“Flout me not, but prithee go forward, and get me what is my own, my sole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to my bosom again.”
Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her face with her apron, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, for her soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was the internal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, and started violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder.
“Mistress Margaret!” said Reicht quietly, “take a fool's advice that loves ye. Go softly to yon cave, wi' all the ears and eyes your mother ever gave you.”
“Why? Reicht?” stammered Margaret.
“I thought the cave was afire, 'twas so light inside; and there were voices.”
“Voices?”
“Ay, not one, but twain, and all unlike—a man's and a little child's talking as pleasant as you and me. I am no great hand at a keyhole for my part, 'tis paltry work; but if so be voices were a talking in yon cave, and them that owned those voices were so near to me as those are to thee, I'd go on all fours like a fox, and I'd crawl on my belly like a serpent, ere I'd lose one word that passes atwixt those twain.”
“Whisht, Reicht! Bless thee! Bide thou here. Buss me! Pray for me!”
And almost ere the agitated words had left her lips, Margaret was flying towards the hermitage as noiselessly as a lapwing.
Arrived near it, she crouched, and there was something truly serpentine in the gliding, flexible, noiseless movements by which she reached the very door, and there she found a chink, and listened. And often it cost her a struggle not to burst in upon them; but warned by defeat, she was cautious, and resolute, let well alone, And after a while, slowly and noiselessly she reared her head, like a snake its crest, to where she saw the broadest chink of all, and looked with all her eyes and soul, as well as listened.
The little boy then being asked whether he had no daddy, at first shook his head, and would say nothing; but being pressed he suddenly seemed to remember something, and said he, “Dad-da ill man; run away and left poor mum-ma.”
She who heard this winced. It was as new to her as to Clement. Some interfering foolish woman had gone and said this to the boy, and now out it came in Gerard's very face. His answer surprised her; he burst out, “The villain! the monster! he must be born without bowels to desert thee, sweet one, Ah! he little knows the joy he has turned his back on. Well, my little dove, I must be father and mother to thee, since the one runs away, and t'other abandons thee to my care. Now to-morrow I shall ask the good people that bring me my food to fetch some nice eggs and milk for thee as well; for bread is good enough for poor old good-for-nothing me, but not for thee. And I shall teach thee to read.”
“I can yead, I can yead.”
“Ay, verily, so young? all the better; we will read good books together, and I shall show thee the way to heaven. Heaven is a beautiful place, a thousand times fairer and better than earth, and there be little cherubs like thyself, in white, glad to welcome thee and love thee. Wouldst like to go to heaven one day?”
“Ay, along wi'-my-mammy.”
“What, not without her then?”
“Nay. I ont my mammy. Where is my mammy?”
(Oh! what it cost poor Margaret not to burst in and clasp him to her heart!)
“Well, fret not, sweetheart, mayhap she will come when thou art asleep. Wilt thou be good now and sleep?”
“I not eepy. Ikes to talk.”
“Well, talk we then; tell me thy pretty name.”
“Baby.” And he opened his eyes with amazement at this great hulking creature's ignorance.
“Hast none other?”
“Nay.”
“What shall I do to pleasure thee, baby? Shall I tell thee a story?”
“I ikes tories,” said the boy, clapping his hands.
“Or sing thee a song?”
“I ikes tongs,” and he became excited.
“Choose then, a song or a story.”
“Ting I a tong. Nay, tell I a tory. Nay, ting I a tong. Nay—And the corners of his little mouth turned down and he had half a mind to weep because he could not have both, and could not tell which to forego. Suddenly his little face cleared: “Ting I a tory,” said he.
“Sing thee a story, baby? Well, after all, why not? And wilt thou sit o' my knee and hear it?”
“Yea.”
“Then I must e'en doff this breastplate, 'Tis too hard for thy soft cheek. So. And now I must doff this bristly cilice; they would prick thy tender skin, perhaps make it bleed, as they have me, I see. So. And now I put on my best pelisse, in honour of thy worshipful visit. See how soft and warm it is; bless the good soul that sent it; and now I sit me down; so. And I take thee on my left knee, and put my arm under thy little head; so, And then the psaltery, and play a little tune; so, not too loud.”
“I ikes dat.”
“I am right glad on't. Now list the story.”
He chanted a child's story in a sort of recitative, singing a little moral refrain now and then. The boy listened with rapture.
“I ikes oo,” said he, “Ot is oo? is oo a man?”
“Ay, little heart, and a great sinner to boot.”
“I ikes great tingers. Ting one other tory.”
Story No. 2 was Chanted.
“I ubbs oo,” cried the child impetuously, “Ot caft(3) is oo?”
“I am a hermit, love.”
“I ubbs vermins. Ting other one.”
But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her leaden sceptre over the youthful eyelids. “I is not eepy,” whined he very faintly, and succumbed.
Clement laid down his psaltery softly and began to rock his new treasure in his arms, and to crone over him a little lullaby well known in Tergou, with which his own mother had often sent him off.
And the child sank into a profound sleep upon his arm. And he stopped croning and gazed on him with infinite tenderness, yet sadness; for at that moment he could not help thinking what might have been but for a piece of paper with a lie in it.
He sighed deeply.
The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with it, and in it, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was down at his knee with a timorous hand upon his shoulder.
“GERARD, YOU DO NOT REJECT US, YOU CANNOT.”
(1) More than one hermit had received a present of this
kind.
(2) Query, “looking glass.”
(3) Craft. He means trade or profession.
CHAPTER XCV