The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages

  CHAPTER XCVI

  HER attitude was one to excite pity rather than terror, in eyes notblinded by a preconceived notion. Her bosom was fluttering like a bird,and the red and white coming and going in her cheeks, and she had herhand against the wall by the instinct of timid things, she trembled so;and the marvellous mixed gaze of love, and pious awe, and pity, andtender memories, those purple eyes cast on the emaciated and glaringhermit, was an event in nature.

  "Aha!" he cried. "Thou art come at last in flesh and blood; come to meas thou camest to holy Anthony. But I am ware of thee; I thought thywiles were not exhausted. I am armed." With this he snatched up hissmall crucifix and held it out at her, astonished, and the candle in theother hand, both crucifix and candle shaking violently, "Exorcizo te."

  "Ah, no!" cried she, piteously; and put out two pretty deprecatingpalms. "Alas! work me no ill! It is Margaret."

  "Liar!" shouted the hermit. "Margaret was fair, but not so supernaturalfair as thou. Thou didst shrink at that sacred name, thou subtlehypocrite. In Nomine Dei exorcizo vos."

  "Ah, Jesu!" gasped Margaret, in extremity of terror, "curse me not! Iwill go home. I thought _I_ might come. For very manhood be-Latin menot! 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 doubtedstill whether this distressed creature, all woman, and nature, was notall art, and fiend. But her spontaneous appeal to that sacred namedissolved his chimera; and let him see with his eyes, and hear with hisears.

  He uttered a cry of self-reproach, and tried to raise her; but what withfasts, what with the over-powering emotion of a long solitude so broken,he could not. "What," he gasped shaking over her, "and is it thou? Andhave I met thee with hard words? Alas!" And they were both choked withemotion, and could not speak for a while.

  "I heed it not much," said Margaret, bravely, struggling with her tears;"you took me for another: for a devil; oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!"

  "Forgive me, sweet soul!" And as soon as he could speak more than a wordat a time, he said, "I have been much beset by the evil one since I camehere."

  Margaret looked round with a shudder. "Like enow. Then oh take my hand,and let me lead thee from this foul place."

  He gazed at her with astonishment.

  "What, desert my cell; and go into the world again? Is it for that thouhast come to me?" said he, sadly and reproachfully.

  "Ay, Gerard. I am come to take thee to thy pretty vicarage: art vicar ofGouda, thanks to Heaven and thy good brother Giles: and mother and Ihave made it so neat for thee, Gerard. 'Tis well enow in winter Ipromise thee. But bide a bit till the hawthorn bloom, and anon thy wallsput on their kirtle of brave roses, and sweet woodbine. Have weforgotten thee, and the foolish things thou lovest? And, dear Gerard,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'llshow thee a treasure thou hast gotten, and knowest nought on't, or surehadst never fled from us so. Alas! what is to do? What have I ignorantlysaid; to be regarded thus?"

  For he had drawn himself all up into a heap, and was looking at her witha strange gaze of fear and suspicion blended.

  "Unhappy girl," said he, solemnly, yet deeply agitated, "would you haveme risk my soul and yours for a miserable vicarage and the flowers thatgrow on it? But this is not thy doing: the bowelless fiend sends thee,poor simple girl, to me with this bait. But oh, cunning fiend, I willunmask thee even to this thine instrument, and she shall see thee, andabhor thee as I do. Margaret, my lost love, why am I here? Because Ilove thee."

  "Oh! no, Gerard, 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; andafter this night, shall meet no more on earth."

  "Now God forbid!" said she.

  "I love thee, and thou hast not forgotten me, or thou hadst married erethis, and hadst not been the one to find me, buried here from sight ofman. I am a priest, a monk: what but folly or sin can come of you and meliving neighbours, and feeding a passion innocent once, but now (soHeaven wills it) impious and unholy? No, though my heart break I must befirm. 'Tis I that am the man, 'tis I that am the priest. You and I mustmeet no more, till I am schooled by solitude, and thou art wedded toanother."

  "I consent to my doom but not to thine. I would ten times liever die;yet I will marry, ay, wed misery itself sooner than let thee lie in thisfoul dismal place, with yon sweet manse a waiting for thee." Clementgroaned; at each word she spoke out stood clearer and clearer, twothings--his duty, and the agony it must cost.

  "My beloved," said he, with a strange mixture of tenderness and doggedresolution, "I bless thee for giving me one more sight of thy sweetface, and may God forgive thee, and bless thee, for destroying in aminute the holy peace it hath taken six months of solitude to build. Nomatter. A year of penance will, Dei gratia, restore me to my calm. Mypoor Margaret, I seem cruel: yet I am kind: 'tis best we part; ay, thismoment."

  "Part, Gerard? Never: we have seen what comes of parting. Part? Why youhave not heard half my story; no nor the tithe. 'Tis not for thy merecomfort I take thee to Gouda manse. Hear me!"

  "I may not. Thy very voice is a temptation with its music, memory'sdelight."

  "But I say you shall hear me, Gerard, for forth this place I go notunheard."

  "Then must we part by other means," said Clement, sadly.

  "Alack! what other means? Wouldst put me to thine own door, being thestronger?"

  "Nay, Margaret, well thou knowest I would suffer many deaths rather thanput force on thee; thy sweet body is dearer to me than my own: but amillion times dearer to me are our immortal souls, both thine and mine.I have withstood this direst temptation of all long enow. Now I must flyit: farewell! farewell!"

  He made to the door, and had actually opened it and got half out, whenshe darted after and caught him by the arm.

  "Nay, then another must speak for me. I thought to reward thee foryielding to me: but unkind that thou art, I need his help I find; turnthen this way one moment."

  "Nay, nay."

  "But I say ay! And then turn thy back on us an thou canst." She somewhatrelaxed 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 enthusiasmgiving 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, byanother 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 face pale and her eyesglistening; and then in the still night he heard these words:

  "Oh, God! thou that knowest all, thou seest how I am used. Forgive methen! For I will not live another day." With this she suddenly startedto her feet, and flew like some wild creature, wounded to death, closeby 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 comingmadness, all in that piteous cry. Clement heard, and it froze his heartwith terror and remorse, worse than the icy water chilled the marrow ofhis bones.

  He felt he had driven her from him for ever, and in the midst of hisdismal triumph, the greatest he had won, there came an
almostincontrollable impulse to curse the Church, to curse religion itself,for exacting such savage cruelty from mortal man. At last he crawledhalf dead out of the water, and staggered to his den. "I am safe here,"he groaned; "she will never come near me again; unmanly, ungratefulwretch that I am." And he flung his emaciated, frozen body down on thefloor, 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. Onthis he rose slowly and took off his wet things, and moaning all thetime at the pain he had caused her he loved, put on the old hermit'scilice of bristles, and over that his breastplate. He had never worneither of these before, doubting himself worthy to don the arms of thattried soldier. But now he must give himself every aid: the bristlesmight distract his earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might beholy virtue in the breastplate.

  HE SCANNED, WITH GREAT TEARFUL EYES, THIS STRANGE FIGURETHAT LOOKED SO WILD]

  Then he kneeled down and prayed God humbly to release him that verynight from the burden of the flesh. Then he lighted all his candles andrecited his psalter doggedly: each word seemed to come like a lump oflead from a leaden heart, and to fall leaden to the ground; and in thismechanical office every now and then he moaned with all his soul. Inthe midst of which he suddenly observed a little bundle in the corner hehad not seen before in the feebler light, and at one end of it somethinglike gold spun into silk.

  He went to see what it could be; and he had no sooner viewed it closerthan he threw up his hands with rapture, "It is a seraph," he whispered,"a lovely seraph. Heaven hath witnessed my bitter trial, and approves mycruelty; and this flower of the skies is sent to cheer me, faintingunder my burden."

  He fell on his knees, and gazed with ecstasy on its golden hair, and itstender skin and cheeks like a peach.

  "Let me feast my sad eyes on thee ere thou leavest me for thineever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at thy parting, as it didat hers."

  With all this the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He opened widetwo eyes, the colour of heaven; and seeing a strange figure kneelingover him, he cried piteously: "MUM--MA! MUM--MA!" And the tears began torun down his little cheeks.

  Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had not lookedon the human face divine, estimated childish beauty more justly than wecan; 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 spellwas broken.

  Yet not unhappily. Clement, it may be remembered, was fond of children,and true monastic life fosters this sentiment. The innocent distress onthe cherubic face, the tears that ran so smoothly from those transparentviolets, his eyes, and his pretty, dismal cry for his only friend, hismother, went through the hermit's heart. He employed all his gentlenessand all his art to sooth him, and, as the little soul was wonderfullyintelligent for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased tocry out, and wonder took the place of fear, while in silence, brokenonly in little gulps, he scanned, with great tearful eyes, this strangefigure that looked so wild, but spoke so kindly, and wore armour, yetdid not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement was equally perplexedto know how this little human flower came to lie sparkling and bloomingin his gloomy cave. But he remembered he had left the door wide open,and he was driven to conclude that, owing to this negligence, someunfortunate creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunityto get rid of her child for ever.[I] At this his bowels yearned so overthe poor deserted cherub that the tears of pure tenderness stood in hiseyes, and still, beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the divinegoodness, which had so directed her heartlessness as to comfort hisservant's breaking heart.

  "Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I would notchange thee for e'en a cherub in heaven."

  "At's pooty," replied the infant, ignoring contemptuously, after themanner of infants, all remarks that did not interest him.

  "What is pretty here, my love, beside thee?"

  "Ookum-gars,"[J] said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breastplate.

  "Quot liberi, tot sententiunculae!" Hector's child screamed at hisfather's glittering casque and nodding crest: and here was a mediaevalbabe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs assuaged.

  "There are prettier things here than that," said Clement, "there arelittle birds; lovest thou birds?"

  "Nay. Ay. En um ittle, ery ittle? Not ike torks. Hate torks; um biggeran baby."

  He then confided, in very broken language, that the storks, with theirgreat flapping wings, scared him, and were a great trouble and worry tohim, darkening his existence more or less.

  "Ay, but my birds are very little, and good, and oh, so pretty!"

  "Den I ikes 'm," said the child, authoritatively. "I ont my mammy."

  "Alas, sweet dove! I doubt I shall have to fill her place as best I may.Hast thou no daddy as well as mammy, sweet one?"

  Now not only was this conversation from first to last, the relativeages, situations, and all circumstances of the parties considered, asstrange a one as ever took place between two mortal creatures, but at orwithin a second or two of the hermit's last question, to turn thestrange into the marvellous, came an unseen witness, to whom every wordthat passed carried ten times the force it did to either of thespeakers.

  Since, therefore, it is with her eyes you must now see, and hear withher ears, I go back a step for her.

  Margaret, when she ran past Gerard, was almost mad. She was in thatstate of mind in which affectionate mothers have been known to killtheir children, sometimes along with themselves, sometimes alone, whichlast is certainly maniacal. She ran to Reicht Heynes pale and trembling,and clasped her round the neck. "Oh, Reicht! oh, Reicht!" and could sayno more. Reicht kissed her and began to whimper; and, would you believeit, the great mastiff uttered one long whine: even his glimmer of sensetaught him grief was afoot.

  "Oh, Reicht!" moaned the despised beauty, as soon as she could utter aword for choking, "see how he has served me;" and she showed her handsthat 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 cameto tempt him. Am I the woman to tempt a man? you know me, Reicht."

  "Nay, in sooth, sweet Mistress Margaret, the last i' the world."

  "And he would not look at my child. I'll fling myself and him into theRotter this night."

  "Oh fie, fie! eh, my sweet woman, speak not so. Is any man that breathesworth 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 oneanother's arms.

  After a while Margaret left off sobbing and said, doggedly, "Let us gohome."

  "Ay, but the bairn?"

  "Oh! he is well where he is. My heart is turned against my very child._He_ cares nought for him; wouldn't see him, nor hear speak of him; andI took him there so proud, and made his hair so nice I did, and put hisnew frock and cowl on him. Nay, turn about: it's his child as well asmine; let him keep it awhile: mayhap that will learn him to think moreof its mother and his own."

  "High words off an empty stomach," said Reicht.

  "Time will show. Come thou home."

  They departed, and Time did show quicker than he levels abbeys, for atthe second step Margaret stopped, and could neither go one way nor theother, but stood stock still.

  "Reicht," said she, piteously, "what else have I on earth? I cannot."

  "Who ever said you could? Think you I paid attention? Words are woman'sbreath. Come back for him without more ado; 'tis time we were in ourbeds, much more he."

  Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in thatdirection; 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 notbear the sight of him."

  "Alas! mistress, this do se
em a sorry ending after all that hath beenbetwixt you twain. Bethink thee now, doth thine heart whisper no excusefor him? dost verily hate him for whom thou hast waited so long? Ohweary world!"

  "Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head for all that isin nature; but look on him I cannot; I have taken a horror of him. Oh!when I think of all I have suffered for him, and what I came here thisnight to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call himfather. Ah; Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I havethought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised: andnow my own is despised. Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he wouldhave a good chance."

  "Well, he is not far off," said Reicht Heynes, but somehow she did notsay it with alacrity.

  "Speak not to me of any man," said Margaret, bitterly, "I hate themall."

  "For the sake of one?"

  "Flout me not, but prithee go forward and get me what _is_ my own, mysole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to mybosom again."

  Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her facewith her apron, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, forher soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was theinternal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, andstarted violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder.

  "Mistress Margaret!" said Reicht, quietly, "take a fool's advice thatloves ye. Go softly to yon cave wi' all the ears and eyes your motherever gave you."

  "Why?--what,--Reicht?" stammered Margaret.

  "I thought the cave was afire, 'twas so light inside; and there werevoices."

  "Voices?"

  "Ay, not one, but twain, and all unlike--a man's and a little child's,talking as pleasant as you and me. I am no great hand at a keyhole formy part, 'tis paltry work; but if so be voices were talking in yon cave,and them that owned those voices were so near to me as those are tothee, I'd go on all fours like a fox, and I'd crawl on my belly like aserpent, ere I'd lose one word that passes _atwixt those twain_."

  "Whisht, Reicht! Bless thee! Bide thou here. Buss me! Pray for me!"

  And almost ere the agitated words had left her lips Margaret was flyingtowards the hermitage as noiselessly as a lapwing. Arrived near it, shecrouched, and there was something truly serpentine in the gliding,flexible, noiseless movements by which she reached the very door, andthere she found a chink and listened. And often it cost her a strugglenot to burst in upon them, but warned by defeat, she was cautious andresolute to let well alone. And after a while slowly and noiselessly shereared her head, like a snake its crest, to where she saw the broadestchink of all, and looked with all her eyes and soul, as well aslistened.

  The little boy then being asked whether he had no daddy, at first shookhis head, and would say nothing; but being pressed, he suddenly seemedto remember something, and said he, "Dad--da ill man; run away and leavepoor mum--ma."

  She who heard this winced. It was as new to her as to Clement. Someinterfering foolish woman had gone and said this to the boy, and now outit came in Gerard's very face. His answer surprised her; he burst out,"The villain! the monster! he must be born without bowels to desertthee, sweet one. Ah! he little knows the joy he hath turned his back on.Well, my little dove, I must be father and mother to thee, since the oneruns away, and t'other abandons thee to my care. Now to-morrow I shallask the good people, that bring me my food, to fetch some nice eggs andmilk for thee as well; for bread is good enough for poor oldgood-for-nothing me, but not for thee. And I shall teach thee to read."

  "I can yead, I can yead."

  "Ay verily, so young? all the better; we will read good books together,and I shall show thee the way to heaven. Heaven is a beautiful place, athousand times fairer and better than earth, and there be little cherubslike thyself, in white, glad to welcome thee and love thee. Wouldst liketo go to heaven one day?"

  "Ay, along wi'--my--mammy."

  "What, not without her then?"

  "Nay. I ont my mammy. Where is my mammy?"

  (Oh! what it cost poor Margaret not to burst in and clasp him to herheart!)

  "Well, fret not, sweetheart, mayhap she will come when thou art asleep.Wilt thou be good now and sleep?"

  "I not eepy. Ikes to talk."

  "Well, talk we then; tell me thy pretty name."

  "Baby." And he opened his eyes with amazement at this great hulkingcreature's ignorance.

  "Hast none other?"

  "Nay."

  "What shall I do to pleasure thee, baby? Shall I tell thee a story?"

  "I ikes tories," said the boy, clapping his hands.

  "Or sing thee a song?"

  "I ikes tongs," and he became excited.

  "Choose then, a song or a story."

  "Ting I a tong. Nay, tell I a tory. Nay, ting I a tong. Nay--." And thecorners of his little mouth turned down and he had half a mind to weepbecause he could not have both, and could not tell which to forego.Suddenly his little face cleared, "Ting I a tory," said he.

  "Sing thee a story, baby? Well, after all, why not? And wilt thou sit o'my knee and hear it?"

  "Yea."

  "Then I must 'een doff this breastplate. 'Tis too hard for thy softcheek. So. And now I must doff this bristly cilice; they would prick thytender skin, perhaps make it bleed, as they have me, I see. So. And nowI put on my best pelisse, in honour of thy worshipful visit. See howsoft and warm it is; bless the good soul that sent it; and now I sit medown; so. And I take thee on my left knee, and put my arm under thylittle head; so. And then the psaltery, and play a little tune; so, nottoo loud."

  "I ikes dat."

  "I am right glad on't. Now list the story."

  He chanted a child's story in a sort of recitative, singing a littlemoral refrain now and then. The boy listened with rapture.

  "I ikes oo," said he. "Ot is oo? is oo a man?"

  "Ay, little heart, and a great sinner to boot."

  "I ikes great tingers. Ting one other tory."

  Story No. 2 was chanted.

  "I ubbs oo," cried the child, impetuously. "Ot caft[K] is oo?"

  "I am a hermit, love."

  "I ubbs vermins. Ting other one."

  But during this final performance, Nature suddenly held out her leadensceptre over the youthful eyelids. "I is not eepy," whined he veryfaintly, and succumbed.

  Clement laid down his psaltery softly and began to rock his new treasurein his arms, and to crone over him a little lullaby well known inTergou, with which his own mother had often set him off.

  And the child sank into a profound sleep upon his arm. And he stoppedcrooning, and gazed on him with infinite tenderness, yet sadness; for,at that moment he could not help thinking what might have been but for apiece of paper with a lie in it.

  He sighed deeply.

  The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with it, and init, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was down at his knee witha timorous hand upon his shoulder.

  "GERARD, YOU DO NOT REJECT US. YOU CANNOT."

  FOOTNOTES:

  [I] More than one hermit had received a present of this kind.

  [J] Query? "looking-glass."

  [K] Craft. He means trade or profession.