The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade
with thyself and thy once good wits?
“The Dominicans are the friars preachers. 'Tis for preaching they were founded, so thou art false to Dominic as well as to his Master.
“Do you remember, Gerard, when we were young together, which now are old before our time, as we walked handed in the fields, did you but see a sheep cast, ay, three fields off, you would leave your sweetheart (by her good will) and run and lift the sheep for charity? Well, then, at Gouda is not one sheep in evil plight, but a whole flock; some cast, some strayed, some sick, some tainted, some a being devoured, and all for the want of a shepherd. Where is their shepherd? lurking in a den like a wolf, a den in his own parish; out fie! out fie!
“I scented thee out, in part, by thy kindness to the little birds. Take note, you Gerard Eliassoen must love something, 'tis in your blood; you were born to't. Shunning man, you do but seek earthly affection a peg lower than man.”
Gerard interrupted her. “The birds are God's creatures, His innocent creatures, and I do well to love them, being God's creatures.”
“What, are they creatures of the same God that we are, that he is who lies upon thy knee?”
“You know they are.”
“Then what pretence for shunning us and being kind to them? Sith man is one of the animals, why pick him out to shun? Is't because he is of animals the paragon? What, you court the young of birds, and abandon your own young? Birds need but bodily food, and having wings, deserve scant pity if they cannot fly and find it. But that sweet dove upon thy knee, he needeth not carnal only, but spiritual food. He is thine as well as mine; and I have done my share. He will soon be too much for me, and I look to Gouda's parson to teach him true piety and useful lore. Is he not of more value than many sparrows?”
Gerard started and stammered an affirmation. For she waited for his reply.
“You wonder,” continued she, “to hear me quote holy writ so glib. I have pored over it this four years, and why? Not because God wrote it, but because I saw it often in thy hands ere thou didst leave me. Heaven forgive me, I am but a woman. What thinkest thou of this sentence? 'Let your work so shine before men that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven!' What is a saint in a sink better than 'a light under a bushel!'
“Therefore, since the sheep committed to thy charge bleat for thee and cry, 'Oh desert us no longer, but come to Gouda manse;' since I, who know thee ten times better than thou knowest thyself, do pledge my soul it is for thy soul's weal to go to Gouda manse—since duty to thy child, too long abandoned, calls thee to Gouda manse—since thy sovereign, whom holy writ again bids thee honour, sends thee to Gouda manse—since the Pope, whom the Church teaches thee to revere hath absolved thee of thy monkish vows, and orders thee to Gouda manse—”
“Ah!”
“Since thy grey-haired mother watches for thee in dole and care, and turneth oft the hour-glass and sigheth sore that thou comest so slow to her at Gouda manse—since thy brother, withered by thy curse, awaits thy forgiveness and thy prayers for his soul, now lingering in his body, at Gouda manse—take thou in thine arms the sweet bird wi' crest of gold that nestles to thy bosom, and give me thy hand; thy sweetheart erst and wife, and now thy friend, the truest friend to thee this night that ere man had, and come with me to Gouda manse!”
“IT IS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL!” cried Clement loudly.
“Then hearken it, and come forth to Gouda manse!”
The battle was won.
Margaret lingered behind, cast her eye rapidly round the furniture, and selected the Vulgate and the psaltery. The rest she sighed at, and let it lie. The breastplate and the cilice of bristles she took and dashed with feeble ferocity on the floor.
Then seeing Gerard watch her with surprise from the outside, she coloured and said, “I am but a woman: 'little' will still be 'spiteful.'”
“Why encumber thyself with those? They are safe.”
“Oh, she had a reason.”
And with this they took the road to Gouda parsonage, The moon and stars were so bright, it seemed almost as light as day.
Suddenly Gerard stopped. “My poor little birds!”
“What of them?”
“They will miss their food. I feed them every day.”
“The child hath a piece of bread in his cowl, Take that, and feed them now against the morn.”
“I will. Nay, I will not, He is as innocent, and nearer to me and to thee.”
Margaret drew a long breath, “'Tis well, Hadst taken it, I might have hated thee; I am but a woman.”
When they had gone about a quarter of a mile, Gerard sighed.
“Margaret,” said he, “I must e'en rest; he is too heavy for me.”
“Then give him me, and take thou these. Alas! alas! I mind when thou wouldst have run with the child on one shoulder, and the mother on t'other.”
And Margaret carried the boy.
“I trow,” said Gerard, looking down, “overmuch fasting is not good for a man.”
“A many die of it each year, winter time,” replied Margaret.
Gerard pondered these simple words, and eyed her askant, carrying the child with perfect ease. When they had gone nearly a mile he said with considerable surprise, “You thought it was but two butts' length.”
“Not I.”
“Why, you said so.”
“That is another matter.” She then turned on him the face of a Madonna. “I lied,” said she sweetly. “And to save your soul and body, I'd maybe tell a worse lie than that, at need. I am but a woman, Ah, well, it is but two butts' length from here at any rate.”
“Without a lie?”
“Humph! Three, without a lie.”
And sure enough, in a few minutes they came up to the manse.
A candle was burning in the vicar's parlour. “She is waking still,” whispered Margaret.
“Beautiful! beautiful!” said Clement, and stopped to look at it.
“What, in Heaven's name?”
“That little candle, seen through the window at night. Look an it be not like some fair star of size prodigious: it delighteth the eyes, and warmeth the heart of those outside.”
“Come, and I'll show thee something better,” said Margaret, and led him on tiptoe to the window.
They looked in, and there was Catherine kneeling on the hassock, with her “hours” before her.
“Folk can pray out of a cave,” whispered Margaret. “Ay and hit heaven with their prayers; for 'tis for a sight of thee she prayeth, and thou art here. Now, Gerard, be prepared; she is not the woman you knew her; her children's troubles have greatly broken the brisk, light-hearted soul. And I see she has been weeping e'en now; she will have given thee up, being so late.”
“Let me get to her,” said Clement hastily, trembling all over.
“That door! I will bide here.”
When Gerard was gone to the door, Margaret, fearing the sudden surprise, gave one sharp tap at the window and cried, “Mother!” in a loud, expressive voice that Catherine read at once. She clasped her hands together and had half risen from her kneeling posture when the door burst open and Clement flung himself wildly on his knees at her knees, with his arms out to embrace her. She uttered a cry such as only a mother could, “Ah! my darling, my darling!” and clung sobbing round his neck. And true it was, she saw neither a hermit, a priest, nor a monk, but just her child, lost, and despaired of, and in her arms, And after a little while Margaret came in, with wet eyes and cheeks, and a holy calm of