The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

      “My poor Denys, I am one whose face is changed, but nought else; to my heart, dear, trusty comrade, to my heart,” And he opened his arms, with the tears in his eyes. But Denys came close to him, and peered in his face, and devoured every feature; and when he was sure it was really Gerard, he uttered a cry so vehement it brought the women running from the house, and fell upon Gerard's neck, and kissed him again and again, and sank on his knees, and laughed and sobbed with joy so terribly, that Gerard mourned his folly in doing dramas. But the women with their gentle soothing ways soon composed the brave fellow, and he sat smiling, and holding Margaret's hand and Gerard's, And they all supped together, and went to their beds with hearts warm as a toast; and the broken soldier was at peace, and in his own house, and under his comrade's wing.

      His natural gaiety returned, and he resumed his consigne after eight years' disuse, and hobbled about the place enlivening it; but offended the parish mortally by calling the adored vicar comrade, and nothing but comrade.

      When they made a fuss about this to Gerard, he just looked in their faces and said, “What does it matter? Break him of swearing, and you shall have my thanks.”

      This year Margaret went to a lawyer to make her will, for without this, she was told, her boy might have trouble some day to get his own, not being born in lawful wedlock. The lawyer, however, in conversation, expressed a different opinion.

      “This is the babble of churchmen,” said he, “Yours is a perfect marriage, though an irregular one.”

      He then informed her that throughout Europe, excepting only the southern part of Britain, there were three irregular marriages, the highest of which was hers, viz., a betrothal before witnesses, “This,” said he, “if not followed by matrimonial intercourse, is a marriage complete in form, but incomplete in substance. A person so betrothed can forbid any other banns to all eternity. It has, however, been set aside where a party so betrothed contrived to get married regularly, and children were born thereafter. But such a decision was for the sake of the offspring, and of doubtful justice. However, in your case the birth of your child closes that door, and your marriage is complete both in form and substance. Your course, therefore, is to sue for your conjugal rights; it will be the prettiest case of the century. The law is all on our side, the Church all on theirs. If you come to that, the old Batavian law, which compelled the clergy to marry, hath fallen into disuse, but was never formally repealed.”

      Margaret was quite puzzled. “What are you driving at, sir? Who am I to go to law with?”

      “Who is the defendant? Why, the vicar of Gouda.”

      “Alas, poor soul! And for what shall I law him?”

      “Why, to make him take you into his house, and share bed and board with you, to be sure.”

      Margaret turned red as fire, “Gramercy for your rede,” said she, “What, is yon a woman's part? Constrain a man to be hers by force? That is men's way of wooing, not ours. Say I were so ill a woman as ye think me, I should set myself to beguile him, not to law him;” and she departed, crimson with shame and indignation.

      “There is an impracticable fool for you,” said the man of art.

      Margaret had her will drawn elsewhere, and made her boy safe from poverty, marriage or no marriage.

      These are the principal incidents that in ten whole years befell two peaceful lives, which in a much shorter period had been so thronged with adventures and emotions.

      Their general tenor was now peace, piety, the mild content that lasts, not the fierce bliss ever on tiptoe to depart, and above all, Christian charity.

      On this sacred ground these two true lovers met with an uniformity and a kindness of sentiment which went far to soothe the wound in their own hearts, To pity the same bereaved; to hunt in couples all the ills in Gouda, and contrive and scheme together to remedy all that were remediable; to use the rare insight into troubled hearts which their own troubles had given them, and use it to make others happier than themselves—this was their daily practice. And in this blessed cause their passions for one another cooled a little, but their affection increased.

      From this time Margaret entered heart and soul into Gerard's pious charities, that affection purged itself of all mortal dross. And as it had now long out-lived scandal and misapprehension, one would have thought that so bright an example of pure self-denying affection was to remain long before the world, to show men how nearly religious faith, even when not quite reasonable, and religious charity, which is always reasonable, could raise two true lovers' hearts to the loving hearts of the angels of heaven. But the great Disposer of events ordered otherwise.

      Little Gerard rejoiced both his parents' hearts by the extraordinary progress he made at Alexander Haaghe's famous school at Deventer.

      The last time Margaret returned from visiting him, she came to Gerard flushed with pride. “Oh, Gerard, he will be a great man one day, thanks to thy wisdom in taking him from us silly women. A great scholar, one Zinthius, came to see the school and judge the scholars, and didn't our Gerard stand up, and not a line in Horace or Terence could Zinthius cite but the boy would follow him with the rest. 'Why, 'tis a prodigy,' says that great scholar; and there was his poor mother stood by and heard it. And he took our Gerard in his arms, and kissed him; and what think you he said?”

      “Nay, I know not.”

      “'Holland will hear of thee one day; and not Holland only, but all the world,' Why what a sad brow!”

      “Sweet one, I am as glad as thou, yet am I uneasy to hear the child is wise before his time, I love him dear; but he is thine idol, and Heaven doth often break our idols.”

      “Make thy mind easy,” said Margaret. “Heaven will never rob me of my child. What I was to suffer in this world I have suffered, For if any ill happened my child or thee, I should not live a week. The Lord He knows this, and He will leave me my boy.”

      A month had elapsed after this; but Margaret's words were yet ringing in his ears, when, going on his daily round of visits to his poor, he was told quite incidentally, and as mere gossip, that the plague was at Deventer, carried thither by two sailors from Hamburgh.

      His heart turned cold within him. News did not gallop in those days. The fatal disease must have been there a long time before the tidings would reach Gouda. He sent a line by a messenger to Margaret, telling her that he was gone to fetch little Gerard to stay at the manse a little while, and would she see a bed prepared, for he should be back next day. And so he hoped she would not hear a word of the danger till it was all happily over. He borrowed a good horse, and scarce drew rein till he reached Deventer, quite late in the afternoon. He went at once to the school. The boy had been taken away.

      As he left the school he caught sight of Margaret's face at the window of a neighbouring house she always lodged at when she came to Deventer.

      He ran hastily to scold her and pack both her and the boy out of the place.

      To his surprise the servant told him with some hesitation that Margaret had been there, but was gone.

      “Gone, woman?” said Gerard indignantly, “art not ashamed to say so? Why, I saw her but now at the window.”

      “Oh, if you saw her—”

      A sweet voice above said, “Stay him not, let him enter.” It was Margaret.

      Gerard ran up the stairs to her, and went to take her hand, She drew back hastily.

      He looked astounded.

      “I am displeased,” she said coldly. “What makes you here? Know you not the plague is in the town?”

      “Ay, dear Margaret; and came straightway to take our boy away.”

      “What, had he no mother?”

      “How you speak to me! I hoped you knew not.”

      “What, think you I leave my boy unwatched? I pay a trusty woman that notes every change in his cheek when I am not here, and lets me know, I am his mother.”

      “Where