The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

and forrards of thee to her, and her to thee.”

      In return for this, Kate bestowed on Catherine one of the prettiest presents in nature—the composite kiss, i.e., she imprinted on her cheek a single kiss, which said—

      1. Quite correct.

      2. Good, clever mother, for guessing so right and quick.

      3. How sweet for us twain to be' of one mind again after

      never having been otherwise.

      4. Etc.

      “Now then, speak thy mind, child, Gerard is not here. Alas, what am I saying? would to Heaven he were.”

      “Well then, mother, she is comely, and wrongs her picture but little.”

      “Eh, dear; hark to young folk! I am for good acts, not good looks. Loves she my boy as he did ought to be loved?”

      “Sevenbergen is farther from the Stadthouse than we are,” said Kate thoughtfully; “yet she was there afore me.”

      Catherine nodded intelligence.

      “Nay, more, she had got him out ere I came. Ay, down from the captive's tower.”

      Catherine shook her head incredulously. “The highest tower for miles! It is not feasible.”

      “'Tis sooth though. She and an old man she brought found means and wit to send him up a rope. There 'twas dangling from his prison, and our Giles went up it. When first I saw it hang, I said, 'This is glamour.' But when the frank lass's arms came round me, and her bosom' did beat on mine, and her cheeks wet, then said I, ''Tis not glamour: 'tis love.' For she is not like me, but lusty and able; and, dear heart, even I, poor frail creature, do feel sometimes as I could move the world for them I love: I love you, mother. And she loves Gerard.”

      “God bless her for't! God bless her!”

      “But

      “But what, lamb?”

      “Her love, is it for very certain honest? 'Tis most strange; but that very thing, which hath warmed your heart, hath somewhat cooled mine towards her; poor soul. She is no wife, you know, mother, when all is done.”

      “Humph! They have stood at the altar together.”

      “Ay, but they went as they came, maid and bachelor.”

      “The parson, saith he so?”

      “Nay, for that I know not.”

      “Then I'll take no man's word but his in such a tangled skein.” After some reflection she added, “Natheless art right, girl; I'll to Sevenbergen alone. A wife I am but not a slave. We are all in the dark here. And she holds the clue. I must question her, and no one by; least of all you. I'll not take any lily to a house Wi' a spot, no, not to a palace o' gold and silver.”

      The more Catherine pondered this conversation, the more she felt drawn towards Margaret, and moreover “she was all agog” with curiosity, a potent passion with us all, and nearly omnipotent with those who like Catherine, do not slake it with reading. At last, one fine day, after dinner, she whispered to Kate, “Keep the house from going to pieces, an ye can;” and donned her best kirtle and hood, and her scarlet clocked hose and her new shoes, and trudged briskly off to Sevenbergen, troubling no man's mule.

      When she got there she inquired where Margaret Brandt lived. The first person she asked shook his head, and said—“The name is strange to me.” She went a little farther and asked a girl of about fifteen who was standing at a door. “Father,” said the girl, speaking into the house, “here is another after that magician's daughter.” The man came out and told Catherine Peter Brandt's cottage was just outside the town on the east side. “You may see the chimney hence;” and he pointed it out to her. “But you will not find them there, neither father nor daughter; they have left the town this week, bless you.”

      “Say not so, good man, and me walken all the way from Tergou.”

      “From Tergou? then you must ha' met the soldier.”

      “What soldier? ay, I did meet a soldier.”

      “Well, then, yon soldier was here seeking that self-same Margaret.”

      “Ay, and warn't a mad with us because she was gone?” put in the girl. “His long beard and her cheek are no strangers, I warrant.”

      “Say no more than ye know,” said Catherine sharply. “You are young to take to slandering your elders. Stay! tell we more about this soldier, good man.

      “Nay, I know no more than that he came hither seeking Margaret Brandt, and I told him she and her father had made a moonlight flit on't this day sennight, and that some thought the devil had flown away with them, being magicians. 'And,' says he, 'the devil fly away with thee for thy ill news;' that was my thanks. 'But I doubt 'tis a lie,' said he. 'An you think so,' said I, 'go and see.' 'I will,' said he, and burst out wi' a hantle o' gibberish: my wife thinks 'twas curses; and hied him to the cottage. Presently back a comes, and sings t'other tune. 'You were right and I was wrong,' says he, and shoves a silver coin in my hand. Show it the wife, some of ye; then she'll believe me; I have been called a liar once to-day.”

      “It needs not,” said Catherine, inspecting the coin all the same.

      “And he seemed quiet and sad like, didn't he now, wench?”

      “That a did,” said the young woman warmly; “and, dame, he was just as pretty a man as ever I clapped eyes on. Cheeks like a rose, and shining beard, and eyes in his head like sloes.”

      “I saw he was well bearded,” said Catherine; “but, for the rest, at my age I scan them not as when I was young and foolish. But he seemed right civil: doffed his bonnet to me as I had been a queen, and I did drop him my best reverence, for manners beget manners. But little I wist he had been her light o' love, and most likely the—Who bakes for this town?”

      The man, not being acquainted with her, opened his eyes at this transition, swift and smooth.

      “Well, dame, there be two; John Bush and Eric Donaldson, they both bide in this street.”

      “Then, God be with you, good people,” said she, and proceeded; but her sprightly foot came flat on the ground now, and no longer struck it with little jerks and cocking heel. She asked the bakers whether Peter Brandt had gone away in their debt. Bush said they were not customers. Donaldson said, “Not a stiver: his daughter had come round and paid him the very night they went. Didn't believe they owed a copper in the town.” So Catherine got all the information of that kind she wanted with very little trouble.

      “Can you tell me what sort this Margaret was?” said she, as she turned to go.

      “Well, somewhat too reserved for my taste. I like a chatty customer—when I'm not too busy. But she bore a high character for being a good daughter.”

      “'Tis no small praise. A well-looking lass, I am told?”

      “Why, whence come you, wyfe?”

      “From Tergou.”

      “Oh, ay. Well you shall judge: the lads clept her 'the beauty of Sevenbergen;' the lasses did scout it merrily, and terribly pulled her to pieces, and found so many faults no two could agree where the fault lay.”

      “That is enough,” said Catherine. “I see, the bakers are no fools in Sevenbergen, and the young women no shallower than in other burghs.”

      She bought a manchet of bread, partly out of sympathy and justice (she kept a shop), partly to show her household how much better bread she gave them daily; and returned to Tergou dejected.

      Kate met her outside the town with beaming eyes.

      “Well, Kate, lass, it is a happy thing I went; I am heartbroken. Gerard has been sore abused. The child is none of ourn, nor the mother from this hour.”

      “Alas, mother, I fathom not your meaning.”

      “Ask