The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

Thou shalt not go 'tis not fair of me. Love maketh us to be all self.”

      “Humph!” said Luke. “And if,” resumed he, in the same grave way, “yon scapegrace shall read thy letter, and hear me tell him how thou pinest for him, and yet, being a traitor, or a mere idiot, will not turn to thee what shall become of me then? Must I die a bachelor, and thou fare lonely to thy grave, neither maid, wife, nor widow?”

      Margaret panted with fear and emotion at this terrible piece of good sense, and the plain question which followed it. But at last she faltered 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, be just and tell him what a lovely babe he hath, fatherless, fatherless. Oh, Luke, can he be so cruel?”

      “I trow not but if?”

      “Then he will give thee up my marriage lines, and I shall be an honest woman, and a wretched one, and my boy will not be a bastard; and of course, then we could both go into any honest man's house that would be troubled with us; and even for thy goodness this day, I will—I will—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, anyway; 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 see it again.”

      Then Margaret took out Catherine's gold angel, which had escaped so often, 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 superstitious age; and Luke acted on the dying man's dream, or vision, or illusion, or whatever it was, much as we should act on respectable information.

      But Catherine was downright angry when she heard of it, “To send the poor lad on such a wild-goose chase! But you are like a many more girls; and mark my words; by the time you have worn that Luke fairly out, and made him as sick of you as a dog, you will turn as fond on him as a cow on a calf, and 'Too late' will be the cry.”

      THE CLOISTER

      The two friars reached Holland from the south just twelve hours after Luke started up the Rhine.

      Thus, wild-goose chase or not, the parties were nearing each other, and rapidly too. For Jerome, unable to preach in low Dutch, now began to push on towards the coast, anxious to get to England as soon as possible.

      And having the stream with them, the friars would in point of fact have missed Luke by passing him in full stream below his station, but for the incident which I am about to relate.

      About twenty miles above the station Luke was making for, Clement landed to preach in a large village; and towards the end of his sermon he noticed a grey nun weeping.

      He spoke to her kindly, and asked her what was her grief.

      “Nay,” said she, “'tis not for myself flow these tears; 'tis for my lost friend. Thy words reminded me of what she was, and what she is, poor wretch, But you are a Dominican, and I am a Franciscan nun.”

      “It matters little, my sister, if we are both Christians, and if I can aid thee in aught.”

      The nun looked in his face, and said, “These are strange words, but methinks they are good; and thy lips are oh, most eloquent, I will tell thee our grief.”

      She then let him know that a young nun, the darling of the convent, and her bosom friend, had been lured away from her vows, and after various gradations of sin, was actually living in a small inn as chambermaid, in reality as a decoy, and was known to be selling her favours to the wealthier customers, She added, “Anywhere else we might, by kindly violence, force her away from perdition, But this innkeeper was the servant 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 by force.”

      “Moreover, souls will not be saved by brute force,” said Clement.

      While they were talking Jerome came up, and Clement persuaded him to lie at the convent that night, But when in the morning Clement told him he had had a long talk with the abbess, and that she was very sad, and he had 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 firm, and at last they agreed that Jerome should go forward, and secure their passage in the next ship for England, and Clement be allowed time to make his well-meant but idle experiment.

      About ten o'clock that day, a figure in a horseman's cloak, and great boots to match, and a large flapping felt hat, stood like a statue near the auberge, where was the apostate nun, Mary. The friar thus disguised was at that moment truly wretched. These ardent natures undertake wonders; but are dashed when they come hand to hand with the sickening difficulties. But then, as their hearts are steel, though their nerves are 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 at last entered the inn and sat down faint at heart, and with his body in a cold perspiration, But inside he was another man. He called lustily for a cup of wine: it was brought him by the landlord, He paid for it with money the convent had supplied him; and made a show of drinking it.

      “Landlord,” said he, “I hear there is a fair chambermaid in thine house.”

      “Ay, stranger, the buxomest in Holland. But she gives not her company to all comers only to good customers.”

      Friar Clement dangled a massive gold chain in the landlord's sight. He laughed, and shouted, “Here, Janet, here is a lover for thee would bind thee 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 was seated playing with a piece of work, and laying it down every minute, to sing a mutilated fragment of a song. For, in her mode of life, she had not the patience to carry anything out.

      After a few words of greeting, the disguised visitor asked her if they could not be more private somewhere.

      “Why not?” said she. And she rose and smiled, and went tripping before him, He followed, groaning inwardly, and sore perplexed.

      “There,” said she. “Have no fear! Nobody ever comes here, but such as pay for the privilege.”

      Clement looked round the room, and prayed silently for wisdom. Then he went 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 that God 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 I would not the saints and angels should see us. Would you?”

      “My poor soul, hope not to escape their sight! The only way is not to think of them; for if you do, it poisons your cup. For two pins I'd run and leave thee. Art pleasant company in sooth.”

      “After all, girl, so that men see us not, what signify God and the saints seeing us? Feel this chain! 'Tis virgin gold. I shall cut two of these heavy links off for thee.”

      “Ah! now thy discourse is to the point,”