CHAPTER LXXXIV
"MISTRESS, they all say he is dead."
"Not so. They feed me still with hopes."
"Ay, to your face, but behind your back they all say he is dead."
At this revelation Margaret's tears began to flow.
Luke whimpered for company. He had the body of a man, but the heart of agirl.
"Prithee, weep not so, sweet mistress," said he. "I'd bring him back tolife, an' I could, rather than see thee weep so sore."
Margaret said she thought she was weeping because they were sodouble-tongued with her.
She recovered herself, and laying her hand on his shoulder, saidsolemnly, "Luke, he is not dead. Dying men are known to have a strangesight. And listen, Luke! My poor father, when he was a-dying, and I,simple fool, was so happy, thinking he was going to get well altogether,he said to mother and me--he was sitting in that very chair where youare now, and mother was as might be here, and I was yonder making asleeve--said he, 'I see him! I see him!' Just so. Not like a failing manat all, but all o' fire. 'Sore disfigured--on a great river--coming thisway.'
"Ah, Luke, if you were a woman, and had the feeling for me you think youhave, you would pity me, and find him for me. Take a thought! The fatherof my child!"
"Alack, I would, if I knew how," said Luke. "But how can I?"
"Nay, of course you cannot. I am mad to think it. But, oh, if any onereally cared for me, they _would_; that is all I know."
Luke reflected in silence for some time.
"The old folk all say dying men can see more than living wights. Let methink: for my mind cannot gallop like thine. On a great river? Well, theMaas is a great river." He pondered on.
"Coming this way? Then if it 'twas the Maas, he would have been here bythis time, so 'tis not the Maas. The Rhine is a great river, greaterthan the Maas; and very long. I think it will be the Rhine."
"And so do I, Luke; for Denys bade him come down the Rhine. But even ifit is, he may turn off before he comes anigh his birthplace. He does notpine for me as I for him; that is clear. Luke, do you not think he hasdeserted me?" She wanted him to contradict her; but he said "It looksvery like it; what a fool he must be!"
"What do we know?" objected Margaret, imploringly.
"Let me think again," said Luke. "I cannot gallop."
The result of this meditation was this. He knew a station about sixtymiles up the Rhine, where all the public boats put in; and he would goto that station, and try and cut the truant off. To be sure he did noteven know him by sight; but as each boat came in he would mingle withthe passengers, and ask if one Gerard was there. "And, mistress, if youwere to give me a bit of a letter to him; for, with us being strangers,mayhap a won't believe a word I say."
"Good, kind, thoughtful Luke, I will (how I have undervalued thee!). Butgive me till supper-time to get it writ." At supper she put a letterinto his hand with a blush: it was a long letter tied round with silkafter the fashion of the day, and sealed over the knot.
Luke weighed it in his hand, with a shade of discontent, and said to hervery gravely, "Say your father was not dreaming, and say I have the luckto fall in with this man, and say he should turn out a better bit ofstuff than I think him, and come home to you then and there--what is tobecome o' me?"
Margaret coloured to her very brow. "Oh, Luke, Heaven will reward thee.And I shall fall on my knees and bless thee; and I shall love thee allmy days, sweet Luke; as a mother does her son. I am so old by thee:trouble ages the heart. Thou shalt not go: 'tis not fair of me; Lovemaketh us to be all self."
"Humph!" said Luke. "And if," resumed he, in the same grave way, "yonscapegrace shall read thy letter, and hear me tell him how thou pinestfor him, and yet, being a traitor, or a mere idiot, will not turn tothee--what shall become of me then? Must I die a bachelor, and thou farelonely to thy grave, neither maid, wife, nor widow?"
Margaret panted with fear and emotion at this terrible piece of goodsense, and the plain question that followed it. But at last shefaltered out, "If, which our Lady be merciful to me, and forbid--Oh!"
"Well, mistress?"
"If he should read my letter, and hear thy words--and, sweet Luke, bejust and tell him what a lovely babe he hath, fatherless, fatherless. OhLuke, can he be so cruel?"
"I trow not: but if?"
"Then he will give thee up my marriage lines, and I shall be an honestwoman; and a wretched one; and my boy will not be a bastard: and, ofcourse, then we _could_ both go into any honest man's house that wouldbe troubled with us: and even for thy goodness this day, I will--Iwill--ne'er be so ungrateful as go past thy door to another man's."
"Ay, but will you come in at mine? Answer me that!"
"Oh, ask me not! Some day, perhaps, when my wounds leave bleeding. Alas,I'll try. If I don't fling myself and my child into the Maas. Do not go,Luke! do not think of going! 'Tis all madness from first to last."
But Luke was as slow to forego an idea as to form one.
His reply showed how fast love was making a man of him. "Well," said he,"madness is something any way; and I am tired of doing nothing for thee:and I am no great talker. To-morrow, at peep of day, I start. But, hold,I have no money. My mother, she takes care of all mine; and I ne'er seeit again."
Then Margaret took out Catherine's gold angel, which had escaped sooften, and gave it to Luke; and he set out on his mad errand.
It did not however seem so mad to him as to us. It was a superstitiousage: and Luke acted on the dying man's dream, or vision, or illusion, orwhatever it was, much as we should act on respectable information.
But Catherine was downright angry when she heard of it. To send the poorlad on such a wild-goose chase! "But you are like a many more girls; andmark my words: by the time you have worn that Luke fairly out, and madehim as sick of you as a dog, you will turn as fond on him as a cow on acalf, and 'Too late' will be the cry."
The Cloister
The two friars reached Holland from the south just twelve hours afterLuke started up the Rhine.
Thus, wild-goose chase or not, the parties were nearing each other, andrapidly too. For Jerome, unable to preach in low Dutch, now began topush on towards the coast, anxious to get to England as soon aspossible.
And, having the stream with them, the friars would in point of fact havemissed Luke by passing him in full stream below his station, but for theincident which I am about to relate.
About twenty miles above the station Luke was making for, Clement landedto preach in a large village; and towards the end of his sermon henoticed a grey nun weeping.
He spoke to her kindly, and asked her what was her grief. "Nay," saidshe, "'tis not for myself flow these tears; 'tis for my lost friend. Thywords reminded me of what she was, and what she is, poor wretch. But youare a Dominican, and I am a Franciscan nun."
"It matters little, my sister, if we are both Christians and if I canaid thee in aught."
The nun looked in his face, and said, "These are strange words, butmethinks they are good; and thy lips are oh most eloquent. I will tellthee our grief."
She then let him know that a young nun, the darling of the convent, andher bosom friend, had been lured away from her vows, and, after variousgradations of sin, was actually living in a small inn as chambermaid, inreality as a decoy, and was known to be selling her favours to thewealthier customers. She added, "Anywhere else we might by kindlyviolence force her away from perdition. But this innkeeper was theservant of the fierce baron on the height there, and hath his ear still,and he would burn our convent to the ground, were we to take her byforce."
"Moreover, souls will not be saved by brute force," said Clement.
While they were talking Jerome came up, and Clement persuaded him to lieat the convent that night. But when in the morning Clement told him hehad had a long talk with the abbess, and that she was very sad, and hehad promised her to try and win back her nun, Jerome objected, and said,"It was not their business, and was a waste of time." Clement, however,was no longer a mere pupil. He stood f
irm, and at last they agreed thatJerome should go forward, and secure their passage in the next ship forEngland, and Clement be allowed time to make his well-meant but idleexperiment.
About ten o'clock that day, a figure in a horseman's cloak, and greatboots to match, and a large flapping felt hat, stood like a statue nearthe auberge, where was the apostate nun, Mary. The friar thus disguisedwas at that moment truly wretched. These ardent natures undertakewonders; but are dashed when they come hand to hand with the sickeningdifficulties. But then, as their hearts are steel, though their nervesare anything but iron, they turn not back, but panting and dispirited,struggle on to the last.
Clement hesitated long at the door, prayed for help and wisdom, and atlast entered the inn and sat down faint at heart, and with his body in acold perspiration.
But outside he was another man. He called lustily for a cup of wine: itwas brought him by the landlord. He paid for it with money the conventhad supplied him: and made a show of drinking it.
"Landlord," said he, "I hear there is a fair chambermaid in thinehouse."
"Ay, stranger, the buxomest in Holland. But she gives not her company toall comers; only to good customers."
Friar Clement dangled a massive gold chain in the landlord's sight. Helaughed, and shouted, "Here, Janet, here is a lover for thee would bindthee in chains of gold: and a tall lad into the bargain I promise thee."
"Then I am in double luck," said a female voice: "send him hither."
Clement rose, shuddered, and passed into the room, where Janet wasseated playing with a piece of work, and laying it down every minute, tosing a mutilated fragment of a song. For, in her mode of life, she hadnot the patience to carry anything out.
After a few words of greeting, the disguised visitor asked her if theycould not be more private somewhere.
"Why not?" said she. And she rose and smiled, and went tripping beforehim. He followed, groaning inwardly, and sore perplexed.
"There," said she. "Have no fear! Nobody ever comes here, but such aspay for the privilege."
Clement looked round the room, and prayed silently for wisdom. Then hewent softly, and closed the window-shutters carefully.
"What on earth is that for?" said Janet in some uneasiness.
"Sweetheart," whispered the visitor, with a mysterious air, "it is thatGod may not see us."
"Madman," said Janet, "think you a wooden shutter can keep out his eye?"
"Nay, I know not. Perchance he has too much on hand to notice us. But Iwould not the saints and angels should see us. Would you?"
"My poor soul, hope not to escape their sight! The only way is not tothink of them; for if you do, it poisons your cup. For two pins I'd runand leave thee. Art pleasant company in sooth."
"After all, girl, so that men see us not, what signify God and thesaints seeing us? Feel this chain! 'Tis virgin gold. I shall cut two ofthese heavy links off for thee."
"Ah! now thy discourse is to the point." And she handled the chaingreedily. "Why, 'tis as massy as the chain round the Virgin's neck atthe conv--" She did not finish the word.
"Whisht! whisht! whisht! 'Tis _it_. And thou shalt have thy share. Butbetray me not."
"Monster!" cried Janet, drawing back from him with repugnance, "what robthe blessed Virgin of her chain, and give it to an--"
"You are none," cried Clement, exultingly, "or you had not recked forthat.--Mary!"
"Ah! ah! ah!"
"Thy patron saint, whose chain this is, sends me to greet thee."
She ran screaming to the window and began to undo the shutters.
Her fingers trembled, and Clement had time to debarass himself of hisboots, and his hat, before the light streamed in upon him. He then lethis cloak quietly fall, and stood before her, a Dominican friar, calmand majestic as a statue, and held his crucifix towering over her with aloving, sad, and solemn look, that somehow relieved her of the physicalpart of fear, but crushed her with religious terror and remorse. Shecrouched and cowered against the wall.
"Mary," said he, gently; "one word! Are you happy?"
"As happy as I shall be in hell."
"And they are not happy at the convent; they weep for you."
"For me?"
"Day and night; above all the Sister Ursula."
"Poor Ursula!" And the strayed nun began to weep herself at the thoughtof her friend.
"The angels weep still more. Wilt not dry all their tears in earth andheaven, and save thyself?"
"Ah! would I could: but it is too late."
"Satan avaunt," cried the monk, sternly. "'Tis thy favourite temptation;and thou, Mary, listen not to the enemy of man, belying God, andwhispering despair. I who come to save thee have been a far greatersinner than thou. Come, Mary, sin, thou seest, is not so sweet e'en inthis world, as holiness; and eternity is at the door."
"How can they ever receive me again?"
"'Tis their worthiness thou doubtest now. But in truth they pine forthee. 'Twas in pity of their tears that I, a Dominican, undertook thistask; and broke the rule of my order by entering an inn; and broke itagain by donning these lay vestments. But all is well done, and quit fora light penance, if thou will let us rescue thy soul from this den ofwolves and bring thee back to thy vows."
The nun gazed at him with tears in her eyes. "And thou a Dominican hastdone this for a daughter of St. Francis! Why the Franciscans andDominicans hate one another."
"Ay, my daughter; but Francis and Dominic love one another."
The recreant nun seemed struck and affected by this answer.
Clement now reminded her how shocked she had been that the Virgin shouldbe robbed of her chain. "But see now," said he, "the convent and theVirgin too think ten times more of their poor nun than of golden chains;for they freely trusted their chain to me a stranger, that peradventurethe sight of it might touch their lost Mary and remind her of theirlove." Finally he showed her with such terrible simplicity the end ofher present course, and on the other hand so revived her dormantmemories and better feelings, that she kneeled sobbing at his feet, andowned she had never known happiness nor peace since she betrayed hervows; and said she would go back if he would go with her; but alone shedared not, could not: even if she reached the gate she could neverenter. How could she face the abbess and the sisters? He told her hewould go with her as joyfully as the shepherd bears a strayed lamb tothe fold.
But when he urged her to go at once, up sprung a crop of thoseprodigiously petty difficulties that entangle her sex, like silken nets,like iron cobwebs.
He quietly swept them aside.
"But how can I walk beside thee in this habit?"
"I have brought the gown and cowl of thy holy order. Hide thy braverywith them. And leave thy shoes as I leave these" (pointing to hishorseman's boots).
She collected her jewels and ornaments.
"What are these for?" inquired Clement.
"To present to the convent, father."
"Their source is too impure."
"But," objected the penitent, "it would be a sin to leave them here.They can be sold to feed the poor."
"Mary, fix thine eye on this crucifix, and trample those devilishbaubles beneath thy feet."
She hesitated; but soon threw them down and trampled on them.
"Now open the window and fling them out on that dung-hill. 'Tis welldone. So pass the wages of sin from thy hands, its glittering yoke fromthy neck, its pollution from thy soul. Away, daughter of St. Francis, wetarry in this vile place too long." She followed him.
But they were not clear yet.
At first the landlord was so astounded at seeing a black friar and agrey nun pass through his kitchen from the inside, that he gaped, andmuttered "Why, what mummery is this?" But he soon comprehended thematter, and whipped in between the fugitives and the door. "What ho!Reuben! Carl! Gavin! here is a false friar spiriting away our Janet."
The men came running in with threatening looks. The friar rushed at themcrucifix in hand. "Forbear," he cried, in a stentorian voice. "She is ah
oly nun returning to her vows. The hand that touches her cowl, or herrobe, to stay her, it shall wither, his body shall lie unburied, cursedby Rome, and his soul shall roast in eternal fire." They shrank back asif a flame had met them. "And thou--miserable panderer!--"
He did not end the sentence in words, but seized the man by the neck,and, strong as a lion in his moments of hot excitement, whirled himfuriously from the door and sent him all across the room, pitchingheadforemost on to the stone floor; then tore the door open and carriedthe screaming nun out into the road. "Hush! poor trembler," he gasped;"they dare not molest thee on the high road. Away!"
The landlord lay terrified, half stunned, and bleeding: and Mary, thoughshe often looked back apprehensively, saw no more of him.
On the road he bade her observe his impetuosity.
"Hitherto," said he, "we have spoken of thy faults: now for mine. Mycholer is ungovernable; furious. It is by the grace of God I am not amurderer. I repent the next moment; but a moment too late is all toolate. Mary, had the churls laid finger on thee, I should have scatteredtheir brains with my crucifix. Oh, I know myself, go to; and tremble atmyself. There lurketh a wild beast beneath this black gown of mine."
"Alas, father," said Mary, "were you other than you are I had been lost.To take me from that place needed a man wary as a fox; yet bold as alion."
Clement reflected. "Thus much is certain: God chooseth well his fleshlyinstruments: and with imperfect hearts doeth his perfect work. Glory beto God!"
* * * * *
When they were near the convent Mary suddenly stopped, and seized thefriar's arm, and began to cry. He looked at her kindly, and told her shehad nothing to fear. It would be the happiest day she had ever spent. Hethen made her sit down and compose herself till he should return. Heentered the convent, and desired to see the abbess.
"My sister, give the glory to God: Mary is at the gate."
The astonishment and delight of the abbess were unbounded. She yieldedat once to Clement's earnest request that the road of penitence might besmoothed at first to this unstable wanderer, and, after some opposition,she entered heartily into his views as to her actual reception. To givetime for their little preparations Clement went slowly back, andseating himself by Mary soothed her: and heard her confession.
"The abbess has granted me that you shall propose your own penance."
"It shall be none the lighter," said she.
"I trow not," said he: "but that is future: to-day is given to joyalone."
He then led her round the building to the abbess's postern. As they wentthey heard musical instruments and singing.
"'Tis a feast-day," said Mary: "and I come to mar it."
"Hardly," said Clement, smiling; "seeing that you are the queen of thefete."
"I, father? what mean you?"
"What, Mary, have you never heard that there is more joy in heaven overone sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons which needno repentance? Now this convent is not heaven; nor the nuns angels; yetare there among them some angelic spirits; and these sing and exult atthy return. And here methinks comes one of them; for I see her handtrembles at the keyhole."
The postern was flung open, and in a moment sister Ursula clung sobbingand kissing round her friend's neck. The abbess followed more sedately,but little less moved.
Clement bade them farewell. They entreated him to stay: but he told themwith much regret he could not. He had already tried his good brotherJerome's patience, and must hasten to the river: and perhaps sail forEngland to-morrow.
So Mary returned to the fold, and Clement strode briskly on towards theRhine, and England.
This was the man for whom Margaret's boy lay in wait with her letter.
The Hearth
And that letter was one of those simple, touching appeals only her sexcan write to those who have used them cruelly, and they love them. Shebegan by telling him of the birth of the little boy, and the comfort hehad been to her in all the distress of mind his long and strange silencehad caused her. She described the little Gerard minutely, not forgettingthe mole on his little finger. "Know you any one that hath the like onhis? If you only saw him you could not choose but be proud of him; allthe mothers in the street do envy me: but I the wives; for thou comestnot to us. My own Gerard, some say thou art dead. But if thou wert deadhow could I be alive? Others say that thou, whom I love so truly, artfalse. But this will I believe from no lips but thine. My father lovedthee well; and as he lay a-dying he thought he saw thee on a greatriver, with thy face turned towards thy Margaret, but sore disfigured.Is't so, perchance? Have cruel men scarred thy sweet face? or hast thoulost one of thy precious limbs? Why then thou hast the more need of me,and I shall love thee not worse, alas! thinkest thou a woman's love islight as a man's? but better, than I did when I shed those few dropsfrom my arm, not worth the tears thou didst shed for them; mindest thou?'tis not so very long agone, dear Gerard."
The letter continued in this strain, and concluded without a word ofreproach or doubt as to his faith and affection. Not that she was freefrom most distressing doubts: but they were not certainties; and to showthem might turn the scale, and frighten him away from her with fear ofbeing scolded. And of this letter she made soft Luke the bearer.
So she was not an angel after all.
* * * * *
Luke mingled with the passengers of two boats, and could hear nothing ofGerard Eliassoen. Nor did this surprise him. He was more surprised when,at the third attempt, a black friar said to him, somewhat severely, "Andwhat would you with him you call Gerard Eliassoen?"
"Why, father, if he is alive I have got a letter for him."
"Humph!" said Jerome. "I am sorry for it. However, the flesh is weak.Well, my son, he you seek will be here by the next boat, or the nextboat after. And if he chooses to answer to that name--After all, I amnot the keeper of his conscience."
"Good father, one plain word, for Heaven's sake. This Gerard Eliassoenof Tergou--is he alive?"
"Humph! Why, certes, he that went by that name is alive."
"Well, then, that is settled," said Luke, drily. But the next moment hefound it necessary to run out of sight and blubber.
"Oh, why did the Lord make any women?" said he to himself. "I wascontent with the world till I fell in love. Here his little finger ismore to her than my whole body, and he is not dead. And here I have gotto give him this." He looked at the letter and dashed it on the ground.But he picked it up again with a spiteful snatch, and went to thelandlord, with tears in his eyes, and begged for work. The landlorddeclined, said he had his own people.
"Oh, I seek not your money," said Luke. "I only want some work to keepme from breaking my heart about another man's lass."
"Good lad! good lad!" exploded the landlord; and found him lots ofbarrels to mend--on these terms. And he coopered with fury in theinterval of the boats coming down the Rhine.
The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages Page 86
