The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

      THE HEARTH

      “Eli,” said Catherine, “answer me one question like a man, and I'll ask no more to-day. What is wormwood?”

      Eli looked a little helpless at this sudden demand upon his faculties; but soon recovered enough to say it was something that tasted main bitter.

      “That is a fair answer, my man, but not the one I look for.”

      “Then answer it yourself.”

      “And shall. Wormwood is—to have two in the house a-doing nought, but waiting for thy shoes and mine,” Eli groaned. The shaft struck home.

      “Methinks waiting for their best friend's coffin, that and nothing to do, are enow to make them worse than Nature meant. Why not set them up somewhere, to give 'em a chance?”

      Eli said he was willing, but afraid they would drink and gamble their very shelves away.

      “Nay,” said Catherine, “Dost take me for a simpleton? Of course I mean to watch them at starting, and drive them wi' a loose rein, as the saying is.”

      “Where did you think of? Not here; to divide our own custom.”

      “Not likely. I say Rotterdam against the world. Then I could start them.”

      Oh, self-deception! The true motive of all this was to get near little Gerard.

      After many discussions and eager promises of amendment on these terms from Cornelis and Sybrandt, Catherine went to Rotterdam shop-hunting, and took Kate with her; for a change, They soon found one, and in a good street; but it was sadly out of order. However, they got it cheaper for that, and instantly set about brushing it up, fitting proper shelves for the business, and making the dwelling-house habitable.

      Luke Peterson was always asking Margaret what he could do for her. The answer used to be in a sad tone, “Nothing, Luke, nothing.”

      “What, you that are so clever, can you think of nothing for me to do for you?”

      “Nothing, Luke, nothing.”

      But at last she varied the reply thus: “If you could make something to help my sweet sister Kate about.”

      The slave of love consented joyfully, and soon made Kate a little cart, and cushioned it, and yoked himself into it, and at eventide drew her out of the town, and along the pleasant boulevard, with Margaret and Catherine walking beside. It looked a happier party than it was.

      Kate, for one, enjoyed it keenly, for little Gerard was put in her lap, and she doted on him; and it was like a cherub carried by a little angel, or a rosebud lying in the cup of a lily.

      So the vulgar jeered; and asked Luke how a thistle tasted, and if his mistress could not afford one with four legs, etc.

      Luke did not mind these jeers; but Kate minded them for him.

      “Thou hast made the cart for me, good Luke,” said she, “'Twas much. I did ill to let thee draw me too; we can afford to pay some poor soul for that. I love my rides, and to carry little Gerard; but I'd liever ride no more than thou be mocked fort.”

      “Much I care for their tongues,” said Luke; “if I did care I'd knock their heads together. I shall draw you till my mistress says give over.

      “Luke, if you obey Kate, you will oblige me.”

      “Then I will obey Kate.”

      An honourable exception to popular humour was Jorian Ketel's wife. “That is strength well laid out, to draw the weak. And her prayers will be your guerdon; she is not long for this world; she smileth in pain.” These were the words of Joan.

      Single-minded Luke answered that he did not want the poor lass's prayers he did it to please his mistress, Margaret.

      After that Luke often pressed Margaret to give him something to do—without success.

      But one day, as if tired with his importuning, she turned on him, and said with a look and accent I should in vain try to convey:

      “Find me my boy's father.”

      CHAPTER LXXXII

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      “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 a girl.

      “Prithee, weep not so, sweet mistress,” said he. “I'd bring him back to life an I could, rather than see thee weed so sore.”

      Margaret said she thought she was weeping because they were so double-tongued with her.

      She recovered herself, and laying her hand on his shoulder, said solemnly, “Luke, he is not dead. Dying men are known to have a strange sight. 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 you are now, and mother was as might be here, and I was yonder making a sleeve—said he, 'I see him!' I see him! Just so. Not like a failing man at all, but all o' fire. 'Sore disfigured-on a great river-coming this way.'

      “Ah, Luke, if you were a woman, and had the feeling for me you think you have, you would pity me, and find him for me. Take a thought! The father of 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 one really 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 me think: for my mind cannot gallop like thine. On a great river Well, the Maas is a great river.” He pondered on.

      “Coming this way? Then if it 'twas the Maas, he would have been here by this time, so 'tis not the Maas. The Rhine is a great river, greater than 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 if it is, he may turn off before he comes anigh his birthplace. He does not pine for me as I for him; that is clear. Luke, do you not think he has deserted me?” She wanted him to contradict her, but he said, “It looks very 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 sixty miles up the Rhine, where all the public boats put in; and he would go to that station, and try and cut the truant off. To be sure he did not even know him by sight; but as each boat came in he would mingle with the passengers, and ask if one Gerard was there. “And, mistress, if you were 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!). But give me till supper-time to get it writ.” At supper she put a letter into his hand with a blush; it was a long letter, tied round with silk after the fashion of the day, and sealed over the knot.

      Luke weighed it in his hand, with a shade of discontent, and said to her very gravely, “Say your father was not dreaming, and say I have the luck to fall in with this man, and say he should turn out a better bit of stuff than I think him, and come home to you then and there—what is to become o' me?”

      Margaret coloured to her very brow. “Oh, Luke, Heaven will reward thee.