The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

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 me no more, girl, but never mention her name to me again. That is all.”

Kate acquiesced with a humble sigh, and they went home together.

They found a soldier seated tranquilly by their fire. The moment they entered the door he rose, and saluted them civilly. They stood and looked at him; Kate with some little surprise, but Catherine with a great deal, and with rising indignation.

“What makes you here?” was Catherine's greeting.

“I came to seek after Margaret.”

“Well, we know no such person.”

“Say not so, dame; sure you know her by name, Margaret Brandt.”

“We have heard of her for that matter—to our cost.”

“Comes, dame, prithee tell me at least where she bides.”

“I know not where she bides, and care not.”

Denys felt sure this was a deliberate untruth. He bit his lip. “Well, I looked to find myself in an enemy's country at this Tergou; but maybe if ye knew all ye would not be so dour.”

“I do know all,” replied Catherine bitterly. “This morn I knew nought.” Then suddenly setting her arms akimbo she told him with a raised voice and flashing eyes she wondered at his cheek sitting down by that hearth of all hearths in the world.

“May Satan fly away with your hearth to the lake of fire and brimstone,” shouted Denys, who could speak Flemish fluently. “Your own servant bade me sit there till you came, else I had ne'er troubled your hearth. My malison on it, and on the churlish roof-tree that greets an unoffending stranger this way,” and he strode scowling to the door.

“Oh! oh!” ejaculated Catherine, frightened, and also a little conscience-stricken; and the virago sat suddenly down and burst into tears. Her daughter followed suit quietly, but without loss of time.

A shrewd writer, now unhappily lost to us, has somewhere the following dialogue:

She. “I feel all a woman's weakness.”

He. “Then you are invincible.”

Denys, by anticipation, confirmed that valuable statement; he stood at the door looking ruefully at the havoc his thunderbolt of eloquence had made.

“Nay, wife,” said he, “weep not neither for a soldier's hasty word. I mean not all I said. Why, your house is your own, and what right in it have I? There now, I'll go.”

“What is to do?” said a grave manly voice.

It was Eli; he had come in from the shop.

“Here is a ruffian been a-scolding of your women folk and making them cry,” explained Denys.

“Little Kate, what is't? for ruffians do not use to call themselves ruffians,” said Eli the sensible.

Ere she could explain, “Hold your tongue, girl,” said Catherine; “Muriel bade him sat down, and I knew not that, and wyted on him; and he was going and leaving his malison on us, root and branch. I was never so becursed in all my days, oh! oh! oh!”

“You were both somewhat to blame; both you and he,” said Eli calmly. “However, what the servant says the master should still stand to. We keep not open house, but yet we are not poor enough to grudge a seat at our hearth in a cold day to a wayfarer with an honest face, and, as I think, a wounded man. So, end all malice, and sit ye down!”

“Wounded?” cried mother and daughter in a breath.

“Think you a soldier slings his arm for sport?”

“Nay, 'tis but an arrow,” said Denys cheerfully.

“But an arrow?” said Kate, with concentrated horror. “Where were our eyes, mother?”

“Nay, in good sooth, a trifle. Which, however, I will pray mesdames to accept as an excuse for my vivacity. 'Tis these little foolish trifling wounds that fret a man, worthy sir. Why, look ye now, sweeter temper than our Gerard never breathed, yet, when the bear did but strike a piece no bigger than a crown out of his calf, he turned so hot and choleric y'had said he was no son of yours, but got by the good knight Sir John Pepper on his wife dame Mustard; who is this? a dwarf? your servant, Master Giles.”

“Your servant, soldier,” roared the newcomer. Denys started. He had not counted on exchanging greetings with a petard.

Denys's words had surprised his hosts, but hardly more than their deportment now did him. They all three came creeping up to where he sat, and looked down into him with their lips parted, as if he had been some strange phenomenon.

And growing agitation succeeded to amazement.

“Now hush!” said Eli, “let none speak but I. Young man,” said he solemnly, “in God's name who are you, that know us though we know you not, and that shake our hearts speaking to us of—the absent-our poor rebellious son: whom Heaven forgive and bless?”

“What, master,” said Denys, lowering his voice, “hath he not writ to you? hath he not told you of me, Denys of Burgundy?”

“He hath writ, but three lines, and named not Denys of Burgundy, nor any stranger.”

“Ay, I mind the long letter was to his sweetheart, this Margaret, and she has decamped, plague take her, and how I am to find her Heaven knows.”

“What, she is not your sweetheart then?”

“Who, dame? an't please you.”

“Why, Margaret Brandt.”

“How can my comrade's sweetheart be mine? I know her not from Noah's niece; how should I? I never saw her.”

“Whist with this idle chat, Kate,” said Eli impatiently, “and let the young man answer me. How came you to know Gerard, our son? Prithee now think on a parent's cares, and answer me straightforward, like a soldier as thou art.”

“And shall. I was paid off at Flushing, and started for Burgundy. On the German frontier I lay at the same inn with Gerard. I fancied him. I said, 'Be my comrade.' He was loth at first; consented presently. Many a weary league we trode together. Never were truer comrades: never will be while earth shall last. First I left my route a bit to