The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

he told Gerard of his consort that was to sail that very night for Rotterdam; and dear Gerard had to go home and finish his letter and bring it to the ship. And the rest, it is but his poor dear words of love to me, the which, an't please you, I think shame to hear them read aloud, and ends with the lines I sent to Mistress Kate, and they would sound so harsh now and ungrateful.”

      The pleading tone, as much as the words, prevailed, and Richart said he would read no more aloud, but run his eye over it for his own brotherly satisfaction. She blushed and looked uneasy, but made no reply.

      “Eli,” said Catherine, still sobbing a little, “tell me, for our Lady's sake, how our poor boy is to live at that nasty Rome. He is gone there to write, but here he his own words to prove writing avails nought: a had died o' hunger by the way but for paint-brush and psaltery. Well a-day!”

      “Well,” said Eli, “he has got brush and music still. Besides, so many men so many minds. Writing, though it had no sale in other parts, may be merchandise at Rome.”

      “Father,” said little Kate, “have I your good leave to put in my word 'twixt mother and you?”

      “And welcome, little heart.”

      “Then, seems to me, painting and music, close at hand, be stronger than writing, but being distant, nought to compare; for see what glamour written paper hath done here but now. Our Gerard, writing at Venice, hath verily put his hand into this room at Rotterdam, and turned all our hearts. Ay, dear dear Gerard, methinks thy spirit hath rid hither on these thy paper wings; and oh! dear father, why not do as we should do were he here in the body?”

      “Kate,” said Eli, “fear not; Richart and I will give him glamour for glamour. We will write him a letter, and send it to Rome by a sure hand with money, and bid him home on the instant.”

      Cornelis and Sybrandt exchanged a gloomy look.

      “Ah, good father! And meantime?”

      “Well, meantime?”

      “Dear father, dear mother, what can we do to pleasure the absent, but be kind to his poor lass; and her own trouble afore her?”

      “'Tis well!” said Eli; “but I am older than thou.” Then he turned gravely to Margaret: “Wilt answer me a question, my pretty mistress?”

      “If I may, sir,” faltered Margaret.

      “What are these marriage lines Gerard speaks of in the letter?”

      “Our marriage lines, sir. His and mine. Know you not that we are betrothed?”

      “Before witnesses?”

      “Ay, sure. My poor father and Martin Wittenhaagen.”

      “This is the first I ever heard of it. How came they in his hands? They should be in yours.”

      “Alas, sir, the more is my grief; but I ne'er doubted him; and he said it was a comfort to him to have them in his bosom.”

      “Y'are a very foolish lass.”

      “Indeed I was, sir. But trouble teaches the simple.”

      “'Tis a good answer. Well, foolish or no, y'are honest. I had shown ye more respect at first, but I thought y'had been his leman, and that is the truth.”

      “God forbid, sir! Denys, methinks 'tis time for us to go. Give me my letter, sir!”

      “Bide ye! bide ye! be not so hot for a word! Natheless, wife, methinks her red cheek becomes her.”

      “Better than it did you to give it her, my man.”

      “Softly, wife, softly. I am not counted an unjust man though I be somewhat slow.”

      Here Richart broke in. “Why, mistress, did ye shed your blood for our Gerard?”

      “Not I, sir. But maybe I would.”

      “Nay, nay. But he says you did. Speak sooth now!”

      “Alas! I know not what ye mean. I rede ye believe not all that my poor lad says of me. Love makes him blind.”

      “Traitress!” cried Denys. “Let not her throw dust in thine eyes, Master Richart. Old Martin tells me ye need not make signals to me, she-comrade; I am as blind as love—Martin tells me she cut her arm, and let her blood flow, and smeared her heels when Gerard was hunted by the bloodhounds, to turn the scent from her lad.”

      “Well, and if I did, 'twas my own, and spilled for the good of my own,” said Margaret defiantly. But Catherine suddenly clasping her, she began to cry at having found a bosom to cry on, of one who would have also shed her blood for Gerard in danger.

      Eli rose from his chair. “Wife,” said he solemnly, “you will set another chair at our table for every meal: also another plate and knife. They will be for Margaret and Peter. She will come when she likes, and stay away when she pleases. None may take her place at my left hand. Such as can welcome her are welcome to me. Such as cannot, I force them not to abide with me. The world is wide and free. Within my walls I am master, and my son's betrothed is welcome.”

      Catherine bustled out to prepare supper. Eli and Richart sat down and concocted a letter to bring Gerard home. Richart promised it should go by sea to Rome that very week. Sybrandt and Cornelis exchanged a gloomy wink, and stole out. Margaret, seeing Giles deep in meditation, for the dwarf's intelligence had taken giant strides, asked him to bring her the letter. “You have heard but half, good master Giles,” said she. “Shall I read you the rest?”

      “I shall be much beholden to you,” shouted the sonorous atom.

      She gave him her stool: curiosity bowed his pride to sit on it; and Margaret murmured the first part of the letter into his ear very low, not to disturb Eli and Richart. And to do this, she leaned forward and put her lovely face cheek by jowl with Giles's hideous one: a strange contrast, and worth a painter's while to try and represent. And in this attitude Catherine found her, and all the mother warmed towards her, and she exchanged an eloquent glance with little Kate.

      The latter smiled, and sewed, with drooping lashes.

      “Get him home on the instant,” roared Giles. “I'll make a man of him.”

      “Hear the boy!” said Catherine, half comically, half proudly.

      “We hear him,” said Richart; “a mostly makes himself heard when a do speak.”

      Sybrandt. “Which will get to him first?”

      Cornelis (gloomily). “Who can tell?”

      CHAPTER LV

       Table of Contents

      About two months before this scene in Eli's home, the natives of a little' maritime place between Naples and Rome might be seen flocking to the sea beach, with eyes cast seaward at a ship, that laboured against a stiff gale blowing dead on the shore.

      At times she seemed likely to weather the danger, and then the spectators congratulated her aloud: at others the wind and sea drove her visibly nearer, and the lookers-on were not without a secret satisfaction they would not have owned even to themselves.

      Non quia vexari quemquam est jucunda voluptas

      Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suave est.

      And the poor ship, though not scientifically built for sailing, was admirably constructed for going ashore, with her extravagant poop that caught the wind, and her lines like a cocked hat reversed. To those on the beach that battered labouring frame of wood seemed alive, and struggling against death with a panting heart. But could they have been transferred to her deck they would have seen she had not one beating heart but many, and not one nature but a score were coming out clear in that fearful hour.

      The mariners stumbled wildly about the deck, handling the ropes as each thought fit, and cursing