 Chapter ninety-four of The Cloyster and the Hearth by Charles Reed. Her bosom was fluttering like a bird, and the red and white coming and going in her cheeks, when she had her hand against the wall by the instinct of timid things, she trembled so, and the marvellous mixed gaze of love and pious awe and pity and tender memories, those purple eyes cast on the emaciated and glaring hermit, was an event in nature. Aha! he cried, Thou art come at last in flesh and blood, come to me as Thou gamest to holy Anthony, but I am aware of thee, I thought thy wiles were not exhausted, I am armed. With this he snatched up his small crucifix, and held it out at her, astonished, and the candle in the other hand, both crucifix and candle, shaking violently, exorciso te! Oh, no! cried she piteously, and put out two pretty, deprecating palms. Alas, work me, no ill! it is Margaret! Liar! shouted the hermit. Margaret was fair, but not so supernatural fair as Thou, Thou didst shrink at that sacred name, Thou subtle hypocrite, in nominate day exorciso vos. Ah, cheese you! cried Margaret, in extremity of terror, curse me not! I will go home, I thought I might come from very manhood, belatten me not! Oh, Gerard, is it thus you and I meet after all, after all? And she cowered almost to her knees and sobbed with superstitious fear and wounded affection. Impregnated as he was with satanophobia, he might perhaps have doubted still whether this distressed creature, all woman and nature, was not all art and fiend. But her spontaneous appeal to that sacred name dissolved his chimera, and let him see with his eyes and hear with his ears. He uttered a cry of self-reproach, and tried to raise her, but what with fasts, what with the overpowering emotion of a long solitude so broken, he could not. What, he gasped shaking over her, and is it Thou, and have I met thee with hard words? Alas! And they were both choked with emotion, and could not speak for a while. I heeded not much, said Margaret bravely, struggling with her tears. You took me for another, for a devil! Oh, oh, oh! Forgive me, sweet soul! And as soon as he could speak more than a word at a time, he said, I have been much beset by the evil one since I came here. Margaret looked round with a shudder. Like you know, then oh, take my hand and let me lead thee from this foul place. He cased at her with astonishment. What, desert myself, and go into the world again? Is it for that Thou hast come to me? said he sadly and reproachfully. Hi, Gerod, I am come to take thee to thy pretty vicarage, odd vicar of Gouda, thanks to heaven and thy good brother Giles, and mother and I have made it so neat for thee, Gerod. Tis well and oh, in winter I promise thee. But bide a bit till the hawthorn bloom, and at none thy walls put on thy curdle of brave roses, and sweet woodbine, have we forgotten thee and the foolish things Thou lovest? And, dear Gerod, thy mother is waiting, and tis late for her to be out of her bed. Prithee, prithee, come! And the moment we are out of this foul hole, I'll show thee a treasure Thou hast gotten, a newest nautant, or sure had never fled from us so. Alas! what is to do? What have I ignorantly said to be regarded thus? For he had drawn himself all up into a heap, and was looking at her with a strange gaze of fear and suspicion blended. Unhappy girl, said he solemnly, yet deeply agitated, would you have me risk my soul and yours for a miserable vicarage, and the flowers that grow on it? But this is not thy doing. The bowelless fiend sends thee, poor simple girl, to me with this bait. But, O cunning fiend, I will unmask thee even to this thine instrument, and she shall see thee, and abhor thee as I do. Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because I love thee. Oh, no, Gerod, you love me not, or you would not have hidden from me. There was no need. Let there be no deceit between us, Twain, that have loved so true, and after this night shall meet no more on earth. O God forbid! said she, I love thee, and thou hast not forgotten me, or thou hadst married ere this, and hadst not been the one to find me, buried here from sight of man. I am a priest, a monk, what but folly or sin can come out of you and me living neighbors, and feeding a passion innocent once, but now, so heaven wills it, impious and unholy. No, though my heart break, I must be firm. Tis I that am the man, tis I that am the priest, you and I must meet no more till I am schooled by solitude, and thou art wedded to another. I consent to my doom, but not to thine. I would ten times leave a die, yet I will marry, I wed misery itself, sooner than that thee lie in this foul dismal place, with yon sweet mans awaiting for thee. Clement groaned, at each word she spoke out stood clearer and clearer two things, his duty, and the agony it must cost. My beloved said he, with a strange mixture of tenderness and dogged resolution, I bless thee for giving me one more sight of thy sweet face, and may God forgive thee and bless thee for destroying in a minute the holy peace it hath taken sixth month of solitude to build. No matter a year of penance will day gratia restore me to my calm. My poor Margaret, I seem cruel, yet I am kind. Tis best we part, I, this moment. Part, Gerard, never. We have seen what comes of parting. Part, why you have not heard half my story, no, nor the tithe, tis not for thy mere comfort I take thee to good amance, hear me. I may not, by very voice is a temptation with its music, memories delight. But I say you shall hear me, Gerard, for forth this place I go not unheard. Then must we part by other means, said Clement sadly. Like what other means would put me to thine own door being this stronger? Nay, Margaret, well thou knowest I would suffer many deaths rather than put force on thee. Thy sweet body is dearer to me than my own, but a million times dearer to me or our immortal souls, both thine and mine. I have withstood this direst temptation of all, long enough. Now I must fly it, farewell, farewell. He made to the door and had actually opened it and got half out when she darted after and caught him by the arm. Nay, then, another must speak for me. I thought to reward thee for yielding to me, but unkind that thou art, I need his help I find. Turn, then, this way, one moment. Nay, nay, but I say I, and then turn thy back on us and thou canst. She somewhat relaxed her grasp, thinking he would never deny her so small a favour. But at this he saw his opportunity and seized it. Fly, Clement, fly! he almost shrieked, and his religious enthusiasm, giving him for a moment his old strength, he burst wildly away from her, and after a few steps bounded over the little stream and ran beside it, but finding he was not followed, stopped and looked back. She was lying on her face, with her hands spread out. Yes, without meaning it, he had thrown her down and hurt her. When he saw that, he groaned and turned back a step, but suddenly by another impulse flung himself into the icy water instead. There, kill my body! he cried, but save my soul. Whilst he stood there, up to his throat in liquid ice, so to speak, Margaret uttered one long piteous moan, and rose to her knees. He saw her, as plain almost as in midday, saw her pale face and her eyes glistening, and then in the still night he heard these words, Oh God, thou that knowest all, thou seest how I am used, Forgive me, then, for I will not live another day. With this she suddenly started to her feet and flew like some wild creature, wounded to death, close by his miserable hiding place, shrieking, Cruel, Cruel, Cruel, Cruel! What manifold anguish may burst from a human heart in a single syllable. There were wounded love and wounded pride and despair and coming madness all in that piteous cry. Clement heard and it froze his heart with terror and remorse, worse than the icy water chilled the marrow of his bones. He felt he had driven her from him forever, and in the midst of his dismal triumph, the greatest he had won, there came an almost incontrollable impulse to curse the church, to curse religion itself for exacting such savage cruelty from mortal man. At last he crawled half-dead out of the water and staggered to his den. I am saviour, he groaned, she will never come near me again, unmanly, ungrateful wretch that I am. And he flung his emaciated frozen body down on the floor, not without a secret hope that it might never rise thence alive. But presently he saw by the hour-glass that it was past midnight On this he rose slowly and took off his wet things, and moaning all the time at the pain he had caused her he loved, put on the old hermit's sillice of bristles, and over that his breastplate. He had never worn either of these before, doubting himself worthy to don the arms of that tried soldier. But now he must give himself every aid. The bristles might distract his earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be holy virtue in the breastplate. Then he kneeled down, and prayed God humbly to release him that very night from the burden of the flesh. Then he lighted all his candles, and recited his Psalter doggedly, each word seemed to come like a lump of lead from a leaden heart, and to fall leaden to the ground. And in this mechanical office every now and then he moaned with all his soul. In the midst of which he suddenly observed a little bundle in the corner he had not seen before in the feebler light, and at one end of it something like gold spun into silk. He went to see what it could be, and he had no sooner viewed it closer than he threw up his hands with rapture. It is a seraph, he whispered, a lovely seraph. Heaven hath witnessed my bitter trial, and approves my cruelty, and this flower of the skies is sent to cheer me fainting under my burden. He fell on his knees and gazed with ecstasy on its golden hair, and its tender skin and cheeks like a pitch. Let me feast my sad eyes on thee, ere thou leavest me for thine ever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at night parting as it did at hers. With all this the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He opened wide, two eyes, the colour of heaven, and seeing a strange figure kneeling over him, he cried piteously, MAMA, MAMA! and the tears began to run down his little cheeks. Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had not looked on the human face divine, chanted childless beauty more justly than we can, and in truth this fair northern child with its long golden hair was far more angelic than any of our imagined angels. But now the spell was broken. Yet not unhappily. Clement, it may be remembered, was fond of children, and true monastic life fosters this sentiment. The innocent distress on the cherubic face, the tears that ran so smoothly from those transparent violets his eyes, and his pretty dismal cry for his only friend, his mother, went through the hermit's heart. He employed all his gentleness and all his art to soothe him, and as the little soul was wonderfully intelligent for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased to cry out, and wonder took the place of fear. While in silence broken only in little gulps, he scanned with great tearful eyes this strange figure that looked so wild but spoke so kindly, and wore armour, yet did not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement was equally perplexed to know how this little human flower came to lie, sparkling and blooming in his gloomy cave. But he remembered he had left the door wide open, and he was driven to conclude that owing to this negligence some unfortunate creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunity to get rid of her child forever. A footnote reminds us more than one hermit has received a present of this kind. At this his bowels yearned so over the poor deserted cherub that the tears of pure tenderness stood in his eyes and still beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the divine goodness which had so directed her heartlessness as to comfort his servant's breaking heart. Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I would not change thee for in a cherub in heaven. At putty, replied the infant, ignoring contemptuously, after the manner of infants, all remarks that did not interest him. What is pretty here, my love, besides thee? O come, gas, said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breastplate. A footnote states, query looking-glass. Quot liberi, quot liberi tot sententiunke line. Hector's child screamed at his father's glittering cask and nodding crest, and here was a medieval babe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs assuaged. There are prettier things here than that, said Clement. There are little birds, lover-style birds. Nay, aye, enum ittle, ery ittle, not like torques, hate torques on bigger and baby. He then confided in very broken language, that the storks with their great flapping wings scared him, and were a great trouble and worry to him, darkening his existence more or less. Aye, but my birds are very little, and good, and so pretty. Then I like some, said the child authoritatively. I haunt my mummy. Alas, sweet dove, I doubt I shall have to fill her place as best I may. Hast thou no daddy as well as mummy, sweet one? Now, not only was this conversation from first to last, the relative ages, situations, and all circumstances of the parties considered, a stranger one as ever took place between two mortal creatures, but out or within a second or two of the hermit's last question, to turn the strange into the marvellous, came an unseen witness to whom every word that passed carried ten times the force it did to either of the speakers. Since, therefore, it is with her eyes you must now see and hear with her ears, I go a step back for her. Margaret, when she ran past Gerard, was almost mad. She was in that state of mind in which affectionate mothers have been known to kill their children, sometimes along with themselves, sometimes alone, which last is certainly maniacal. So she ran to Reichthainus, pale and trembling, and clasped her round the neck. Oh, Reicht! Oh, Reicht! And could say no more. Reicht kissed her and began to whimper, and would you believe it the great mastiff uttered one long whine, even his glimmer of sense taught him grief was afoot. Oh, Reicht! moaned the despised beauty, as soon as she could utter a word for choking. See how he has served me! And she showed her hands that were bleeding with falling on the stony ground. He threw me down. He was so eager to fly from me. He took me for a devil. He said I came to tempt him. Am I the woman to tempt a man? You know me, Reicht. Nay, ensuth, sweet Mistress Margaret, the last of the world. And he would not look at my child. I have fling myself and him into the rotter this night. Oh, fie, fie, aim, my sweet woman, speak not so. Is any man that breathes worth your child's life? My child, where is he? Why, Reicht, I have left him behind. Oh, shame! Is it possible I can love him to that degree as to forget my child? Ah, I am rightly served for it. And she sat down and faithful Reicht beside her, and they sobbed in one another's arms. After a while Margaret left off sobbing and said doggedly, Let us go home. Aye, but the Ben! Oh, he is well where he is. My heart is turned against my very child. He cares not for him, wouldn't see him nor hear speak of him. And I took him there so proud and made his hair so nice I did, And put his new frock and cowl on him. Nay, turn about, it's his child as well as mine. Let him keep it a while. May have that will learn him to think more of its mother and his own. High words of an empty stomach, said Reicht. Time will show. Come you home. They departed, and time did show quicker than he levels abbeys. For at the second step Margaret stopped and couldn't either go one way nor the other, but stood stock still. Reicht, she said piteously, What else have I on earth? I cannot. Who ever said you could? Think you I paid attention? Words are woman's breath. Come back for him without more ado, Tis time we were in our beds much more he. Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in that direction. But as they drew near the cell, she stopped again. Reicht, go you and ask him. Will he give me back my boy? For I could not bear the sight of him. Alas, mistress, this do seem a sorry ending, After all that hath been betwixt you twain. Be think thee now. Doth thine heart whisper no excuse for him? Does verily hate him, For whom thou hast waited so long? O weary world! Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head, For all that is in nature, But look on him I cannot. I have taken a horror of him. O, when I think of 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, look, 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 Hainus, 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 soul-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 her hand upon her shoulder. Mistress Margaret, said Reicht quietly, Take a fool's advice that loves ye. Go softly to Yon Cave, With all the ears and eyes Your mother ever gave you. Why Reicht, stammered Margaret? I thought the cave was a fire to so light inside, And there were voices. Voices? Ah, 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-hearted, a keyhole for my part, His paltry work. But if so be voices were a talking in Yon Cave, And let them that own those voices were so near to me, As those are to thee, I'd go on all falls like a fox, And I'd crawl on my belly like a serpent, Here I'd lose one word that passes a twix, those twain. Whist, Reicht, bless thee, By thou here, bust me, pray for me. And almost ere the agitated words had left her lips, Margaret was flying towards the hermitage, As noiselessly as a lap-wing. 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, Tata Ilman, run away, and left poor mama! 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 the 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 Tata 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 yeet, I can yeet! I, 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? Aye, along with my mummy. What, not without her, then? No, I on my mummy. Where is my mummy? Oh, what it cost! Poor Margaret, not to burst in, And clasp him to her heart. Well, Fred not, sweetheart, May hap she will come when thou art asleep. Wilt thou be good now and sleep? Aye, not, E.P. I used 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. Has none other? Nay! What shall I do to pleasure thee, baby? Shall I tell thee a story? Aye, ikes, dories! Said the boy, clapping his hands. Or sing thee a song? Aye, ikes, tongs! And he became excited. Choose, then. A song or a story? Ting, aye, a tong! Nay! Tell, aye, a tory! Nay! Ting, aye, 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, aye, a tory! Said he. Sing thee a story, baby, Well, after all, why not? And will thou sit o' my knee and hear it? Yay! Then I must e'en doth this breastplate. Tis too hard for thy soft cheek. So! And now I must doth this bristly salise. They would prick thy tender skin, Perhaps make it bleed, As they have me, I see. So! And now I put on my best pellice, 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 saltery, And play a little tune, So not too loud! I aches doth! I'm 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 aches doth! Said he. Od is doth! Is doth a man? I little heart and a great sinner to boot. I aches great tingers. Ting one other doth doth! Story number two was chanted. I obs ooh! Cried the child impetuously. Od kaft is ooh! A footnote states that by kaft he means craft. Trade or profession. I am a hermit, love. I obs vermin's. Ting another one. But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her lead and scepter. Over the youthful eyes. I is not epee! Wind he, very faintly. And succumbed. Clement laid down his sultry softly, And began to rock his new treasure in his arms. And to crone over him a little lullaby, Well known in Tagoo, 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! End of chapter 94 Recording by Tom Denham Chapter 95 Of The Cloyster and the Hearth By Charles Reed This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Tom Denham The startled hermit, glad from his nursing to Margaret, And from her to him in amazement, Equalled only by his agitation at her so unexpected return. The child lay asleep on his left arm, And she was at his right knee. No longer the pale, scared, punting girl He had overpowered so easily an hour or two ago, But an imperial beauty, With blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes, And lips sweetly parted in triumph, And her whole face radiant with a look he could not quite read, For he had never yet seen it on her. Maternal pride! He stared and stared from the child to her In throbbing amazement. Us! he gasped at last. And still his wondrous stricken eyes turned to and fro. Margaret was surprised in her turn. It was an age of impressions, not facts. What! she cried! Doth not a father know his own child, And a man of God too? Fie, Gerard, to pretend, Nay, thou art too wise, too good, Not to have why I watched thee, And in now look at you twain, To thine own flesh and blood, Thou holdest to thine heart. Clement trembled. What words are these? He stammered. This angel mine? Who's else, since he is mine? Clement turned on the sleeping child, With a look beyond the power of the pen to describe, And trembled all over, As his eyes seemed to absorb the little love. Margaret's eyes followed his. He is not a bit like me, said she proudly, But oh, at whilst he is thy very image in little, And see this golden hair, Thine was the very color at his age, Ask mother else, And see this mole on his little finger. Now look at thine own, there! Twas thy mother let me wheat thou wast marked so before him? And oh, Gerard, twas this our child found thee for me. For by that little mark on thy finger, I knew thee for his father, When I watched above thy window, And saw thee feed the birds. Here she seized the child's hand, And kissed it easily, And got half of it into her mouth, Heaven knows how. Ah, bless thee thou didst find thy poor daddy for her. And now thou hast made us friends again, After our little quarrel. The first, the last. Was very cruel to me, But now, my poor Gerard, And I forgive thee for loving of thy child. Oh! oh! oh! oh! Sub Clement choking, And lowered by fasts, And unnerved by solitude, The once strong man was hysterical, And nearly fainting. Margaret was alarmed, But having experienced her pity was greater than her fear. Nay, take not on so! She murmured soothingly, And put a gentle hand upon his brow. Be brave! so, so! Dear heart, Thou art not the first man that hath gone abroad, And come back richer By a lovely little self, Than he went forth. Being a man of God, Take courage and say, He sends thee this to comfort thee, For what thou hast lost in me. And that is not so very much, my lamb. For sure the better part of love Shall ne'er cool here to thee, Though it may in thine And ought being a priest, And parson of Gouda. I, priest of Gouda, never! murmured Clement in a faint voice. I am a friar of St. Dominic, Yet speak on, sweet music. Tell me all that has happened thee, Before we are parted again. Now some would on this have exclaimed Against parting at all, And raised the true question in dispute, But such women as Margaret Do not repeat their mistakes. It is very hard to defeat them twice Where their hearts are set on a thing. She assented, and turned her back On Gouda-mans as a thing not to be Recurred to, and she told him her tale, Dwelling above all on the kindness To her of his parents, And while she related her troubles, His hand stole to hers, And often she felt him wince And tremble with ire, And often press her hand, Sympathising with her in every vein. O pitious tale of a true heart Battling alone against such bitter odds, Said he. It all seems small When I see thee here again, And nursing my boy. We have had a warning, Gerard, True friends like you and me are rare, And they are mad to part, Air death divideeth them. And that is true, said Clement, Of his guard. And then she would have him tell her What he had suffered for her, And he begged her to excuse him, And she consented. But by questions, Quietly revoked her consent, And elicited it all. And many a sigh she heaved for him, And more than once she hid her face in her hands With terror at his perils, though past. And to console him for all he had gone through, She kneeled down, And put her arms under the little boy, And lifted him gently up. Kiss him softly, she whispered, Again, again, kiss thy fill if thou canst, He is sound. Tis all I can do to comfort thee, Till thou art out of this foul den, And in thy sweet mans yonder. Clement shook his head. Well, said she, let that pass, Know that I have been so affronted For want of my lines. Who hath dared affront thee? No matter. Those that will do it again If thou hast lost them, Which the saints forbid, I lose them? Nay, there they lie, Close to thy hand. Where? Where? Oh, where? Clement hung his head. Look in the vulgate. Heaven forgive me, I thought thou werest dead And a saint in heaven. She looked, And on the blank leaves Of the poor soul's vulgate She found her marriage-lines. Thank God, she cried! Thank God! Oh, bless thee, Gerard! Bless thee! Why, what is here, Gerard? On the other leaves were pinned Every scrap of paper She had ever sent him. And their two names She had once written together in sport And the lock of her hair She had given him And half a silver coin She had broken with him And a straw She had sucked her soup with The first day he ever saw her. When Margaret saw these proofs of love And signs of a gentle heart bereaved, Even her exultation at getting back Her marriage-lines was overpowered By gushing tenderness. She almost staggered And her hand went to her bosom And she leaned her brow Against the stone cell And wept so silently He did not see she was weeping. Indeed, she would not let him. For she felt that to befriend him now She must be the stronger And emotion weakens. Gerard said she, I know you are wise and good. You must have a reason For what you are doing Let it seem ever so unreasonable. Talk we like old friends. Why are you buried alive? Margaret, to escape temptation, My impious ire against those two Has had its root in the heart. That heart, then, I must deaden And day, gratia, I shall. Shall I, as servant of Christ And of the church court temptation, Shall I pray daily to be led out on And walk into it with open eyes? That is good sense, anyway, Said Margaret, with a consummate Affectation of candour. Tis unanswerable, said Clement, with a sigh. We shall see. Tell me, have you escaped temptation here? Why, I ask is, when I am alone My thoughts are far more wild and foolish Than in company. Nay, speak soothe, come. I must need's own I have been Worse tempted here with evil imaginations Than in the world. There, now, I but so were Anthony and Jerome, Macarius and Hilarion, Benedict, Bernard, And all the saints, to aware of. How do you know? I feel sure it will. Guessing against knowledge. Here, tis men folk are sillier than us That be but women. Wise in their own conceits They will not let themselves see, Their stomachs are too high To be taught by their eyes. A woman, if she went into a hole in a bank To escape temptation, and there found it, Would just lift her farthing-gale, And out on't, and not even know how wise she was. Till she watched a man in like plight. Nay, I grant humility and a teachable spirit Are the roads to wisdom, but when all is said Here I wrestle but with imagination. At Gouda she I love, as no priest or monk Must love any but the angels. She will tempt a weak soul unwilling, Yet not loath to be tempted. Aye, that is another matter. I should tempt thee, then, to water God's name. Who knows? The flesh is weak. Speak for yourself, my lad. Why, you are thinking of some other Margaret, Not Margaret or Peter. Was ever my mind turned to folly and frailty? Stay, is it because you were my husband once, As these lines of ouch? Think you, the road to folly, Is beaten for you more than another? Oh, how shallow otherwise! And how little able are you to read me Who can read you so well from top to toe! Come, learn thine ABC! Were a stranger to proffer me unchaste love? I should shrink a bit, no doubt, and feel sore, But I should defend myself without making a coil. For men I know or so, The best of them sometimes. But if you, that have been my husband, And are my child's father, Were to offer to humble me so in mine own eyes, And thine, and his, Either I should spit in thy face, Gerard, Or, as I am not a downright vulgar woman, I should snatch the first weapon at hand And strike thee dead! And Margaret's eyes flashed fire, And her nostrils expanded, That it was glorious to see, And no one that did see her could doubt her sincerity. I had not the sense to see that, said Gerard quietly, And he pondered. Margaret eyed him in silence, And soon recovered her composure. Let not you and I dispute, said she gently, Speak we of other things, ask me of thy folk. My father, well, and warms to thee and me, Poor soul, adrew glaive on those twain that day, But Jorrian Cattle and I, we mastered them, And he drove them forth his house for ever. That may not be, he must take them back, That he will never do for us. You know the man, he is doer as I am, Yet would he do it for one word, From one that will not speak it? Oh, the vicar of Gouda, The old man will be at the man's tomorrow I hear. How you come back to that? Forgive me, I am but a woman, it is us for nagging. Shouldst keep me from it with questioning of me? My sister Kate, alas, What hath ill be fallen in that sweet lily? Out and alas, be calm, sweetheart, No harm hath her be fallen, O nay, nay, far for that. Then Margaret forced herself to be composed, And in a low, sweet, gentle voice she murmured to him thus, My poor Gerard, Kate hath left her trouble behind her, For the manor on't, it was like the rest, Ah, such as she never saw thirty, Nor ever shall while earth shall last. She smiled in pain, too, How well then thus twas, She was took we a longer and a loss of all her pains. A loss of her pains? I understand you not. Ay, you are not experienced. Indeed, in thy mother almost blinded herself and said, Tis may be a change for the better. But Joan Catelyl, which is an understanding woman, She looked at her and said, Down, son, down, wind, And the gossip sided and said, Be brave you that are her mother, For she is half-way to the saints, And thy mother wept sore, But Kate would not let her. And one very ancient woman, She said to thy mother, She will die as easy as she lived hard. And she lay painless best part of three days, A sipping of heaven the forehand. And, my dear, when she was just parting, She asked for Gerard's little boy, And I brought him and set him on the bed, And the little thing behaved as peaceably as he does now. But by this time she was past speaking, But she pointed to a drawer, And her mother knew what to look for. It was two gold angels thou hast given her years ago. Poor soul, she had kept them till thou shouldst come home. And she nodded towards the little boy, And looked anxious, but we understood her, And put the pieces in his two hands, And when his little fingers closed on them, She smiled content. And so she gave her little earthly treasures To her favourite's child. For you were her favourite, And her immortal jewel to God. And past so sweetly, We none of us knew justly when she left us. Well a day, well a day, Gerard wept. She hath not left her like on earth, he sobbed. Oh, how the affections of earth Curls softly round my heart. I cannot help it. God made them after all. Speak on, sweet Margaret, At thy voice the past rolls its tides back upon me. The loves and the hopes of youth come fair And gliding into my dark cell, And darker bosom on waves of memory and music. Gerard, I am loath to grieve you, But Kate cried a little when she first took ill At you not being there to close her eyes. Gerard sighed. You were within a league, but hid your face from her. He groaned. There, forgive me for nagging. I am but a woman. You would not have been so cruel To your own flesh and blood, knowingly, would you? Oh, no. Well, then, know that thy brother Cybrandt Lies in my charge with a broken back Fruit of thy curse. Mayor Culper, Mayor Culper! He is very penitent. Be yourself and forgive him this night. I have forgiven him long ago. Think you he can believe that from any mouth but yours? Come, he is but about two butts length hence. So near? Why, where? At Gouda Mans. I took him there, yes, Dreen, For I know you the curse was scarce cold on your lips When you repented it. Gerard nodded ascent, and I said to myself, Gerard will thank me for taking Cybrandt To die under his roof. He will not beat his breast and crumb Mayor Culper yet grudge three foot steps To quiet a withered brother on his last bed. He may have a bee in his bonnet, but he is not a hypocrite. A thing all pious words and uncharitable deeds. Gerard literally staggered where he sat At this tremendous thrust. Forgive me for nagging, said she. My mother too is waiting for thee. It is well done to keep her on thorn so long She will not sleep this night. Be think thee, Gerard, she is all to thee That I am to this sweet child. Ah, I think so much more of mothers Since I had my little Gerard. She suffered for thee, and nursed thee, And tended thee from boy to man. Priest, monk, hermit, call thyself what thy will be. Call thyself what thy will to her, thou art, but one thing, her child. Where is she? murmured Gerard in a quavering voice At Gouda Mans wearing the night in prayer and care. Then Margaret saw the time was come for that appeal To his reason she had purposely reserved Till persuasion should have paved the way for conviction. So the smith first softens the iron by fire, And then brings down the sledgehammer. She showed him, but in her own good straightforward dutch, That his present life was only a higher kind of selfishness, Spiritual egotism, whereas a priest Had no more right to care only for his own soul Than only for his own body. That was not his path to heaven. But, said she, whoever yet lost his soul By saving the souls of others, The Almighty loves him who thinks of others. And when he shall see thee caring For the souls of the folk That Duke hath put into thine hand, He will care ten times more for thy soul Than he does now, Gerard was struck by this remark. Art shrewd in dispute, said he. Far from it was the reply. Only my eyes are not bandaged with conceit. A footnote tells us, I think she means prejudice. So long as Satan walks the whole earth tempting men, And so long as the sons of Belial Do never lock themselves in caves, But run like ants, to and fro, corrupting others. The good man that skulks apart plays the devil's game, Or at least gives him the odds. Thou a soldier of Christ? Ask thy comrade Denis, Who is but a soldier of the Duke. Ask him if ever he sulked in a hole And shunned the battle, Because forsooth in battle is danger As well as glory and duty. For thy soul excuses fear, Thou makest no secret aunt, Go to, no Duke, no King, Hath such cowardly soldiers as Christ hath. What was that, you said, in the church at Rotterdam, About the man in the parable That buried his talent in the earth, And so offended the giver? Thy wonderful gift for preaching, Is it not a talent and a gift from thy creator? Sirte is such as it is. And hast thou laid it out, or buried it? To whom hast thou preached these seven months? To bats and owls? Hast buried it in one hole 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 eye 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 are 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-fi, out-fi! I centred thee out in part By thy kindness to the little birds. Take note, you, Gerard Eliason, Must love something, tis in your blood, You were born to it, shunning man, You do but seek earthly affection, A peg lower than man. Gerard interrupted her, The birds are God's creatures, Is 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 pretends for shunning us And being kind to them? Sith man is one of the animals. Why pick him out to shun? Is it because he is of animals the paragon? What, you caught the young of birds And abandoned your own young? Birds need but bodily food, And having wings deserves 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 good as pass, And to teach him true piety And useful law. Is he not of more value than many sparrows? Gerard started and stammered in affirmation, For she waited for his reply. You wonder, continued she, To hear me quote holy writ so glib. I have poured over it this four years, And why? Not because God wrote it, But because I saw it often in thy hands, And thou didst leave me. Heaven forgive me, I am but a woman. What thinkers 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 the light under a bushel? Therefore, since the sheep committed To thy charge bleat for thee and cry, O desert us no longer, But come to good a month. Since I, who know thee, Ten times better than thou knowest thyself, Do pledge my soul it is for thy soul's wheel To go to good a month. Since duty to thy child, Too long abandoned, calls thee to good a month. Since thy sovereign, whom holy writ again Bids thee honor, sends thee to good a month. Since the Pope, whom the church teaches thee to revere, Hath absolved thee of thy monkish vows And orders thee to good a month. Ah! Since thy grey-haired mother watches For the indolent care And turneth off the hourglass And sigheth sore That thou comest so slow to her at good a month. Since thy brother, withered by thy curse, Awaits thy forgiveness And thy prayers for his soul, Now lingering in his body at good a month. Take thou in thine arms the sweet bird With crest of gold that nestles to thy bosom And give me thy hand, Thy sweet artiste and wife, And now thy friend, The truest friend to thee this night That air man had, And come with me to good a month. It is the voice of an angel, Cried Clement loudly, Then hearken it and come forth To good a month. The battle was won. Margaret lingered behind, Cast her eye rapidly round the furniture And selected the vulgate and the saltery. The rest she sighed at and let it lie. The breastplate and the salisive bristles She took and dashed with feeble ferocity On the floor. Then seeing Gerard watch her with surprise From the outside she culled 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 gooder 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. Tiswell had 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 enrest. He is too heavy for me. Then give him me, and take thou thyself. Alas, alas, I mined when thou wouldst have run with the child on one shoulder and the mother on tither. And Margaret carried the boy. I trough, said Gerard, looking down. Over much fasting is not good for a man. A many die of it each year wintertime, replied Margaret. Gerard pondered these simple things. Gerard pondered these simple words and eyed her a scant, carrying the child with perfect ease. When they had gone nearly a mile, he said with considerable surprise, You thought it was too butt's length? Not I. Why you said so? That is another matter. She then turned on him the face of a Madonna. I'd 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 too butt's length from here at any rate. Without a lie? Huh, 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, and 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, ah, 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 in now. She will have given thee up, being so late. Let me go to her, said Clement, hastily trembling all over. That door, I will bite 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 affection settled by degrees on these sore trouble ones. And they sat all three together, hand in hand, murmuring sweet and loving converse. And he who sat in the middle drank right and left their true affection, and their humble but genuine wisdom, and was forced to eat a good nourishing meal. And a daybreak was packed off to a snowy bed, and by and by awoke, as from a hideous dream, friar and hermit no more, Clement no more. But Gerard Eliason, parson of Gouda, end of chapter 95, Recording by Tom Denham. Margaret went back to Rotterdam long-air Gerard awoke, and actually left her boy behind her. She sent the faithful, sturdy Reich, off to Gouda directly, with a vicar's gray frock and large felt hat, and with minute instructions how to govern her new master. Then she went to Jorian Cattle, for she said to herself, He is the closest I ever met, so he is the man for me, and in concert with him, she did two mortal sly things, yet not in my opinion virulent, though she thought they were. But if I am asked what were these deeds without a name, the answer is that as she who was but a woman, kept them secret till her dying day, I, who am a man, a verbum nonamplius Adam. She kept away from Gouda parsonage. Things that passed little noticed, in the heat of argument, sometimes rankle afterwards, and when she came to go over all that had passed, she was offended at Gerard thinking she could ever forget the priest in the some time lover. For what did he take me, said she, and this raised a great shyness which really she would not otherwise have felt being downright innocent, and pride sided with modesty and whispered, Go no more to Gouda parsonage. She left little Gerard there to complete the conquest her maternal heart ascribed to him, not to her own eloquence and sagacity, and to anchor his father forever to humanity. But this generous stroke of policy cost her heart dear. She had never yet been parted from her boy an hour, and she felt sadly strange as well as desolate without him. After the first day it became intolerable, and what does the poor soul do but creep at dark, up to Gouda parsonage, and lurk about the premises like a thief, till she saw Reichthainus in the kitchen alone. Then she tapped softly at the window and said, Reichd, for pity's sake bring him out to me unbeknown. With Margaret the person who occupied her thoughts at the time ceased to have a name, and sank to a pronoun. Reichd soon found an excuse for taking little Gerard out, and there was a scene of mutual rapture followed by mutual tears when mother and boy parted again. And it was arranged that Reichd should take him halfway to Rotterdam every day at a set hour, and Margaret meet him. And at these meetings after the raptures, and after mother and child had gambled together like a young cat and her first kitten, the boy would sometimes amuse himself alone at their feet, and the two women generally seized this opportunity to talk very seriously about Luke Peterson. This began thus. Reichd said, Margaret, I as could as promised him to marry Luke Peterson, say you the word, quoth I, and I'll wed him. Poor Luke, pretty why poor Luke, to be bandied about so, twix, yay and nay. Why, Reichd, you have not ever been so simple as to cast an eye of affection on the boy that you take his part? Me? said Reichd with a toss of the head. Oh, I ask your pardon. Well, then, you can do me a good turn. Wished, whisper, that little darling is listening to every word and eyes like saucers. On this both their heads would have gone under one cap. Two women plotting against one boy? Oh, you great cowardly serpents! But when these stolen meetings had gone on for about five days, Margaret began to feel the injustice of it, and to be irritated as well as unhappy. And she was crying about it when a cart came to her door, and in it, clean as a new penny, his beard close shaved, his hands white as snow, and a little colour in his pale face, sat the vicar of Gouda in the grey frock, and large felt heart she had sent him. She ran upstairs directly and washed away all traces of her tears, and put on a cup, which being just taken out of the drawer was cleaner, theoretically, than the one she had on, and came down to him. He seized both her hands and kissed them, and a tear fell upon them. She turned her head away at that to hide her own, which started. My sweet Margaret, he cried, Why is this? Why hold you aloof from your own good deed? We have been waiting for you every day, and no, Margaret. You said things, what, when I was a hermit and a donkey. I, no matter, you said things, and you had no reason. Forget all I said there, who harkens the ravings of a maniac, for I see now that in a few months more I should have been a gibbering idiot, yet no mortal could have persuaded me away but you. Oh, what an outlay of wit and goodness was yours. But it is not here I can thank and bless you as I ought. No, it is in the home you have given me, among the sheep whose shepherd you have made me. Already I love them dearly. There it is I must thank the truest friend ever man had. So now I say to you as erst you said to me, Come to good amance. We will see about that. Why, Margaret, think you I had ever kept the dear child so long, but that I made sure you would be back to him from day to day? Oh, he curls round my very heartstrings, but what is my title to him compared to thine? Confess now, thou hast had hard thoughts of me for this. Nay, nay, not I. Ah, thou art thyself again, what's ever thoughtful of others. I have half a mind to go to good amance for your saying that. Come, then, with half thine mind, to's worth the whole of other folks. Well, I dare say I will, but there is no such mighty hurry, said she coolly. She was literally burning to go. Tell me first how you agree with your folk. Why, already my poor have taken root in my heart. I thought as much, and there are such good creatures among them, simple and rough, and superstitious but wonderfully good. Oh, I leave you alone for seeing a grain of good among a bottle of ill. Wished, wished, and Margaret, two of them have been ill friends for four years, and came to the manseech to get on my blind side, but give the glory to God I got on their bright side, and made them friends, and laugh at themselves for their folly. But are you in every deed there, vicar? Answer me that. Sir Tez, have I not been to the bishop, and taken the oath, and wrung the church bell, and touched the altar, the missile, and the holy cup before the church wardens, and they have handed me the parish seal. See, here it is. Nay, it is a real vicar inviting a true friend to good amance. Then my mind is at ease. Tell me oceans more. Well, sweet one, nearest to me of all my parish is a poor cripple that my guardian angel and his, her name thou knowest, even by this turning of thy head away, have placed beneath my roof. Cybrandt and I are that we never were till now brothers. To gladden thee, yet sadden thee, to hear how we kissed and forgave one another. He is full of thy praises, and wholly in a pious mind. He says he is happier since his trouble than ere he was in the days of his strength. O, out of my house he ne'er shall go to any place, but heaven. Tell me some what that happened thyself, poor soul, all this is good, but yet no tidings to me. Do I not know thee of all? Well, let me see. At first I was much dazzled by the sunlight, and could not go abroad. Owl! But that is past, and good, right heinous. What of her? Tis to thine ear only, for she is a diamond. Her voice goes through me like a knife, and all voices seem loud, but thine, which is so mellow sweet. Stay, now I'll fit thee with tidings. I spake yesterday with an old man that conceits he is ill-tempered, and sweats to pass for such with others, but oh, so threadbare, and the best good heart beneath. Why, tis a parish of angels, said Margaret ironically. Then why dost thou keep out on't? retorted Gerard. Well, he was telling me. There was no parish in Holland where the devil hath such power as at Gouda. And among his instances, says he, We had a hermit, the holiest in Holland, but, being Gouda, the devil came for him this week, and took him, bag and baggage, not a hipoth of him left, but a goodish piece of his skin, just for all the world, like a hedgehogs, and a piece of old iron, furbished up. Margaret smiled. Aye, but, continued Gerard, the strange thing is, the cave has verily fallen in, and had I been so perverse as resist thee, it had assuredly buried me dead there where I had buried myself alive. Therefore in this I see the finger of providence, condemning my late, approving my present, way of life. What says thou? Nay, can I pierce the like mysteries? I am but a woman. Somewhat more, me thinks. This very tale proves thee, my guardian angel, and all else avouches it, so come to Gouda, mans. Well, go ye on, I'll follow. Nay, in the cart with me. Not so. Why? Can I tell why and wherefore being a woman? All I know is I seem to feel, to wish, to come alone. So be it, then. I'll leave thee the cart, being, as thou sayest, a woman, and I'll go afoot, being a man again with the joyful tidings of thy coming. When Margaret reached the mans, the first thing she saw was the two Gerards together, the son performing his capricios on the plot, and the father slouching on a chair in his great heart, with pencil and paper, trying very patiently to sketch him. After a warm welcome, he showed her his attempts. But in vain I strive to fix him, said he, for he is incarnate quicksilver. Yet do but notice changes, infinite, but non-ungracious. All is supple and easy, and how he melted from one posture to another. He added presently, Woe to illuminators, I looking on these, her baby, I see what awkward, lopsided, ungainly toads I in my fellows painted missiles with, and called them cherubs and seraphs. Finally he threw the paper away in despair, and Margaret conveyed it secretly into her bosom. At night, when they sat round the peat-fire, he bad them observe how beautiful the brass candlesticks and other glittering metals were in the glow from the hearth. Catherine's eyes sparkled at this observation, and all the sheets I lie in here, said he, often my conscience, pricketh me, and saith, Who art thou to lie in lint like web of snow? Divies was ne'er so flaxed as I. And to think that there are folk in the world that have all the beautiful things which I have here, and yet not content. Let them, past six months, in a hermit's cell, seeing no face of man, then will they find how lovely and pleasant this wicked world is, and eke that men and women are God's fairest creatures. Margaret was always fair, but never to my eyes so bright as now. Margaret shook her head incredulously. Gerard continued, My mother was ever good and kind, but I noted not her exceeding comeliness till now. Nor I, either, said Catherine. A score years ago I might pass in a crowd, but not now. Gerard declared to her that each age had its beauty. See this mild grey eye, said he, that hath looked motherly love upon so many of us. All that love hath left its shadow, and that shadow is a beauty which defyeth time. See this delicate lip, these pure white teeth. See this well-shaped brow where comeliness just passeth into reverence. Art beautiful in my eyes, mother dear. And that is enough for me, my darling. Till's time you were in bed, child, ye have to preach the morn. And right heinous, and Catherine interchanged the look which said, We too have an amiable maniac to superintend, calls everything beautiful. The next day was Sunday, and they heard him preach in his own church, it was crammed with persons who came curious, but remained devout. Never was his wonderful gift displayed more powerfully. He was himself deeply moved by the first sight of all his people, and his bowels yearned over this flock he had so long neglected. In a single sermon, which lasted two hours and seemed to last but twenty minutes, he declared the whole scripture. He terrified the impenitent and thoughtless, confirmed the wavering, consoled the bereaved and the afflicted, uplifted the heart of the poor, and when he ended, left the multitude standing wrapped, and unwilling to believe the divine music of his voice and soul had ceased. Need I say, that two poor women in a corner sat entranced with streaming eyes. Where ever gutty it all, whispered Catherine with her apron to her eyes, By our lady, not from me! As soon as they were by themselves, Margaret threw her arms round Catherine's neck, and kissed her. Mother, mother, I am not quite a happy woman, but oh, I am a brow one. And she vowed on her knees, never by word or deed, to let her love come between this young saint and heaven. Reader, did you ever stand by the seashore after a storm, when the wind happens to have gone down suddenly? The waves cannot cease with their cause, and indeed they seem at first to the ear to lash the sounding shore more fiercely than while the wind blew. Still we are conscious that inevitable calm has begun, and is now but rocking them to sleep. So it was, with those true and tempest-tossed lovers, from that eventful night when they went hand in hand beneath the stars, from Gouda Hermitage to Gouda Manse. At times a loud wave would every now and then come roaring, but it was only memory's echo of the tempest that had swept their lives. The storm itself was over, and the boiling waters began, from that moment, to go down, down, down, gently, but inevitably. This image is to supply the place of interminable details that would be tedious and tame. What best merits attention at present is the general situation, and the strange complication of feeling that arose from it. History itself, though a far more daring storyteller than romance, presents few things so strange, as the footing on which Gerard and Margaret now lived for many years. The author's footnote here states, Let me not be understood to apply this to the bare outline of the relation. Many bishops and priests, and not a few popes, had wives and children as laymen, and entering orders were parted from the wives and not from the children. But in the case before the reader are the additional features of a strong surviving attachment on both sides and of neighborhood, and besides that, here the man had been led into holy orders by a false statement of the woman's death. On a summary of all the essential features, the situation was, to the best of my belief, unique. To continue. United by present affection, past familiarity, and a marriage irregular but legal, separated by holy church and by their own consciences, which sided unreservedly with holy church, separated by the church, but united by a living pledge of affection, lawful in every sense at its date. And living but a few miles from one another, and she calling his mother mother, for some years she always took her boy to Gouda on Sunday, returning home at dark. Go when she would, it was always fate at Gouda Mans, and she was received like a little queen. Catherine in these days was nearly always with her, and Eli very often. Tegu had so little to tempt them compared with Rotterdam, and at last they left it all together, and set up in the capital. And thus the years glided, so barren now of striking incidents, so void of great hopes, and free from great fears, and so like one another, that without the help of dates I could scarcely indicate the progress of time. However, early next year, 1471, the Duchess of Burgundy, with the open descent but secret connivance of the Duke, raised forces to enable her defroined brother, Edward IV of England, to invade that kingdom. Our old friend Denis thus enlisted, and passing through Rotterdam to the ships, heard on his way that Gerard was a priest, and Margaret alone. On this he told Margaret that marriage was not a habit of his, but that as his comrade had put it out of his own power to keep truth, he felt bound to offer to keep it for him. For a comrade's honour is dear to us as our own, said he. She stared, then smiled. I choose rather to be still thy she, comrade, said she, closer acquainted we might not agree so well. And in her character of she, comrade, she equipped him with a new sword of Antwerp make, and a double-handful of silver. I give thee no gold, said she, for it is thrown away as quick as silver, and harder to win back. Heaven send thee safe out of all thy perils. There be famous fair women yonder to be guile thee with their faces, as well as men to hash thee with their axes. He was hurried on board at Lavère, and never saw Gerard at that time. In 1473, Cyberant began to fail. His pitiable existence had been sweetened by his brother's inventive tenderness, and his own contented spirit, which, his antecedents considered, was truly remarkable. As for Gerard, the day never passed that he did not devote two hours to him, reading or singing to him, praying with him, and drawing him about in a soft courage Margaret and he had made between them. When the poor soul found his end near, he begged Margaret might be sent for. She came at once, and almost with his last breath, he sought once more that forgiveness she had long ago accorded. She remained by him till the last, and he died, blessing and blessed, in the arms of the two true lovers he had parted for life. 1474 there was a wedding in Margaret's house, Luc Peterson, and Reichtheinus. This may seem less than strange if I give the purport of the dialogue interrupted some time back. Margaret went on to say, Then in that case you can easily make him fancy you, and for my sake you must, for my conscience it pricketh me, and I must needs fit him with a wife, the best I know. Margaret then instructed Reichtheinus to be always kind and good-humoured to Luc, and she would be a model of peevishness to him. But be not thou so simple as run me down, said she, leave that to me, make thou excuses for me, I will make myself black enough. Reich received these instructions like an order to sweep a room, and obeyed them punctually. When they had subjected poor Luc to this double artillery for a couple of years, he got to look upon Margaret as his fog and wind, and Reichtheinus as his sunshine, and his affections transferred themselves, he scarce knew how or when. On the wedding day Reichthein embraced Margaret, and thanked her almost with tears. He was always my fancy, said she, from the first hour I clapped eyes on him. Hey, day you never told me that, what right are you as sly as the rest? Nay, nay, said Reich eagerly. But I never thought you would really part with him to me. In my country the mistress looks to be served before the maid. Margaret settled them in her shop, and gave them half the profits. 1476 and 7 were years of great trouble to Gerard, whose conscience compelled him to oppose the pope. His holiness, siding with the gray friars in their determination to swamp every palpable distinction between the Virgin Mary and her son, bribed the Christian world into his crotchet by proffering pardon of all sins to such as would add to the Ave Mary this clause, and blessed be thy mother Anna, from whom without blot of sin proceeded thy Virgin flesh. Gerard, in common with many of the northern clergy, held this sentence to be flat heresy. He not only refused to utter it in his church, but warned his parishioners against using it in private, and he refused to celebrate the new feast the pope invented at the same time, vis the feast of the miraculous conception of the Virgin. But this drew upon him the bitter enmity of the Franciscans, and they were strong enough to put him into more than one serious difficulty, and inflict many a little mortification on him. In emergencies he consulted Margaret, and she always did one of two things. Either she said, I do not see my way, and refused to guess, or else she gave him advice that proved wonderfully sagacious. He had genius, but she had marvellous tact. And where affection came in and annihilated the woman's judgment, he stepped in his turn to her aid. Thus, though she knew she was spoiling little Gerard, and Catherine was ruining him for life, she would not part with him, but kept him at home, and his abilities uncultivated. And there was a shrewd boy of nine years, instead of learning to work and obey, playing about and learning selfishness from their infinite unselfishness, and tyrannizing with a rod of iron over two women, both of them sagacious and spirited, but reduced by their fondness for him to the exact level of idiots. Gerard saw this with pain, and interfered with mild but firm remonstrance. And after a considerable struggle prevailed, and got little Gerard sent to the best school in Europe, kept by one harger at Devente. This was in 1477. Many tears were shed, but the great progress the boy made at that famous school reconciled Margaret in some degree, and the fidelity of right-hanes, now her partner in business, enabled her to spend weeks at a time hovering over her boy at Devente. And so the years glided, and these two persons, subjected to a strong and constant attemptation as can well be conceived, were each other's guardian angels, and not each other's tempters. To be sure, the well-greased morality of the next century, which taught that solemn vows to God are sacred in proportion as they are reasonable, had at that time entered no single mind, and the alternative to these two minds was self-denial or sacrilege. It was a strange thing to hear them talk with unrestrained tenderness to one another of their boy, and an icy barrier between themselves all the time. Eight years had now passed thus, and Gerard, fairly compared with men in general, was happy. But Margaret was not. The habitual expression of her face was a sweet pence ofness, but sometimes she was irritable and a little petulant. She even snapped Gerard now and then, and when she went to see him, if a monk was with him, she would turn her back and go home. She hated the monks for having parted Gerard and her, and she inoculated her boy with a contempt for them which lasted him till his dying day. Gerard bore with her like an angel. He knew her heart of gold, and hoped this ill-gust would blow over. He himself, being now the right man in the right place this many years, loving his parishioners, and beloved by them, and occupied from morn till night in good works, recovered the natural cheerfulness of his disposition. To tell the truth, a part of his jocoseness was a blind. He was the greatest peacemaker, except Mr. Harmony in the play, that ever was born. He reconciled more enemies in ten years than his predecessors had done in three hundred, and one of his maneuvers in the peacemaking art was to make the quarrelors laugh at the cause of quarrel. So did he undermine the demon of discord. But independently of that, he really loved a harmless joke. He was a wonderful tamer of animals, squirrels, bears, fawns, etc. So half-ingest, a parishioner who had a mule supposed to be possessed with a devil gave it him and said, Tame this vagabond parson, if you can. Well, in about six months, heaven knows how, he not only tamed Jack, but won his affections to such a degree that Jack would come running to his whistle like a dog. One day, having taken shelter from a shower on the stone settle outside a certain public house, he heard a topper inside, a stranger boasting he could take more at a draught than any man in Gouda. He instantly marched in and said, What lads, do none of you take him up for the honour of Gouda? Shall it be said that there came hither, one from another parish a greater sort than any of us? Nay, then, are your parson to take him up? Go to, I'll find the parishioner shall drink more at a draught than thou. A bet was made. Gerard whistled. In clattered Jack, for he was taught to come into a room with the utmost composure, and put his nose into his backer's hand. A pair of buckets shouted Gerard, and let us see which of these two sons of asses can drink most at a draught. On another occasion two farmers had a dispute whose hay was the best. Failing to convince each other, they said, We'll ask parson, for by this time he was their referee in every mortal thing. How lucky you thought of me, said Gerard, why I have got one staying with me, who is the best judge of hay in Holland. Bring me a double hand full of peace. So when they came he had them into the parlour, and put each bundle on a chair. Then he whistled, and in walks Jack, Lord her mercy, said one of the farmers. Jack said the parson in the tone of conversation, just tell us which is the best hay of these two. Jack sniffed them both, and made his choice directly, proving his sincerity by eating every morsel. The farmers slapped their thighs, and scratched their heads, to think of we not thinking of that, and they each sent Jack a truss. So Gerard got to be called the merry parson of Gouda. But Margaret, who like most loving women had no more sense of humour than a turtle dove, took this very ill. What, she said to herself, is there nothing sore at the bottom of his art that he can go about playing the zany? She could understand pious resignation and content, but not mirth in true love as parted. And whilst her woman's nature was perturbed by this gust, and women seem more subject to gusts than men, came that terrible animal, a busybody, to work upon her. Catherine saw she was not happy, and said to her, your boy is gone from you. I would not live alone all my days if I were you. He is more alone than I, sighed Margaret. Oh, a man is a man, but a woman is a woman. You must not think all of him and none of yourself. Near is your turtle, but nearer is your smock. Besides, he is a priest and can do no better. But you are not a priest. He has got his parish, and his heart is in that. Be think thee, time flies, overstay not thy market. Wouldst not like to have three or four more little darlings about thy knee, now they have robbed thee of poor little Gerard, and sent him to yon nasty school? And so she worked upon a mind already irritated. Margaret had many suitors ready to marry her at a word or even a look, and among them two merchants of the better class, Van Schelt and Ustwagen. Take one of those two, said Catherine. Well, I will ask Gerard if I may, said Margaret one day with a flood of tears, for I cannot go on the way I am. Why, you would never be so simple as ask him. Think you I would be so wicked as marry without his leave? Accordingly she actually went to Gouda, and after hanging her head and blushing and crying and saying she was miserable, told him his mother wished her to marry one of those two, and if he approved of her marrying at all, would he use his wisdom, and tell her which he thought would be the kindest to the little Gerard of those two. For herself she did not care what became of her. Gerard felt as if she had put a soft hand into his body and torn his heart out with it. But the priest with a mighty effort mastered the man. In a voice scarcely audible he declined this responsibility. I am not a saint or a prophet, said he. I might advise the ill. I shall read the marriage service for thee, faulted he. It is my right. No other would pray for thee as I should, but thou must choose for thyself and oh let me see thee happy. This four months past thou hast not been happy. A discontent and mind is never happy, said Margaret. She left him, and he fell on his knees, and prayed for help from above. Margaret went home pale and agitated. Mother, said she, never mention it to me again, or we shall quarrel. He forbade you? Well, more shame for him, that is all. He forbid me. He did not condescend so far. He was as noble as I was paltry. He would not choose for me for fear of choosing me an ill husband, but he would read the service for my groom and me. That was his right. Oh, mother, what a heartless creature I was. Well, I thought not. He had that much sense. Ah, you go by the poor soul's words, but I rate words as air when the face speaketh to my eye. I saw the priest and the true lover fighting in his dear face, and his cheek pale with the strife, and all his poor lip trembled as he said the stout-hearted words. And Margaret burst into a violent passion of tears. Catherine groaned. There give it up without more ado, said she. You two are chained together for life, and if God is merciful, that won't be for long, for what are you neither maid, wife, nor widow? Give it up, said Margaret. That was done long ago. All I think of now is comforting him, for now I have been and made him unhappy to retch and monster that I am. So the next day they both went to Gouda, and Gerard, who had been praying for resignation all this time, received her with peculiar tenderness as a treasure he was to lose, but she was agitated and eager to let him see without words that she would never marry, and she fawned on him like a little dog to be forgiven, and as she was going away she murmured, Forgive and forget, I am but a woman. He misunderstood her and said, All I bargain for is, Let me see the content for pity's sake, Let me not see the unhappy as I have this while. My darling, you never shall again, said Margaret with streaming eyes and kissed his hand. He misunderstood this too at first, but when month after month passed, had he heard no more of her marriage, and she came to Gouda comparatively cheerful, and was even civil to Father Ambrose, a mild benevolent monk from the Dominican convent hard by, then he understood her, and one day he invited her to walk alone with him in the sacred paddock, and before I relate what passed between them I must give its history. End of chapter 96 part 1 Recording by Tom Denham