The Cloister and the Hearth
Page 72
CHAPTER LXXIII
THE HEARTH
A Catherine is not an unmixed good in a strange house. The governingpower is strong in her. She has scarce crossed the threshold ere theutensils seem to brighten; the hearth to sweep itself; the windows tolet in more light; and the soul of an enormous cricket to animatethe dwelling-place. But this cricket is a Busy Body. And that is atremendous character. It has no discrimination. It sets everything torights, and everybody. Now many things are the better for being set torights. But everything is not. Everything is the one thing that won'tstand being set to rights; except in that calm and cool retreat, thegrave.
Catherine altered the position of every chair and table in Margaret'shouse; and perhaps for the better.
But she must go farther, and upset the live furniture.
When Margaret's time was close at hand, Catherine treacherously invitedthe aid of Denys and Martin; and on the poor, simple-minded fellowsasking her earnestly what service they could be, she told them theymight make themselves comparatively useful by going for a little walk.So far so good. But she intimated further that should the promenadeextend into the middle of next week all the better. This was notingratiating. The subsequent conduct of the strong under the yoke of theweak might have propitiated a she-bear with three cubs, one sickly.They generally slipped out of the house at daybreak; and stole in likethieves at night; and if by any chance they were at home, they wentabout like cats on a wall tipped with broken glass, and wearingawe-struck visages, and a general air of subjugation and depression.
But all would not do. Their very presence was ill-timed; and jarred uponCatherine's nerves.
Did instinct whisper, a pair of depopulators had no business in a housewith multipliers twain?
The breastplate is no armour against a female tongue; and Catherine raninfinite pins and needles of speech into them. In a word, when Margaretcame down stairs, she found the kitchen swept of heroes.
Martin, old and stiff, had retreated no farther than the street, andwith the honours of war: for he had carried off his baggage, a stool;and sat on it in the air.
Margaret saw he was out in the sun; but was not aware he was a fixturein that luminary. She asked for Denys. "Good, kind Denys; he will beright pleased to see me about again."
Catherine, wiping a bowl with now superfluous vigour, told her Denys wasgone to his friends in Burgundy. "And high time, Hasn't been anigh themthis three years, by all accounts."
"What, gone without bidding me farewell?" said Margaret, uplifting twotender eyes like full-blown violets.
Catherine reddened. For this new view of the matter set her consciencepricking her.
But she gave a little toss and said, "Oh, you were asleep at the time:and I would not have you wakened."
"Poor Denys," said Margaret, and the dew gathered visibly on the openviolets.
Catherine saw out of the corner of her eye, and without taking a bit ofopen notice, slipped off and lavished hospitality and tenderness on thesurviving depopulator.
It was sudden: and Martin old and stiff in more ways than one--
"No, thank you, dame. I have got used to out o' doors. And I love notchanging and changing. I meddle wi' nobody here; and nobody meddles wi'me."
"Oh, you nasty, cross old wretch!" screamed Catherine, passing in amoment from treacle to sharpest vinegar. And she flounced back into thehouse.
On calm reflection she had a little cry. Then she half reconciledherself to her conduct by vowing to be so kind, Margaret should nevermiss her plagues of soldiers. But feeling still a little uneasy, shedispersed all regrets by a process at once simple and sovereign.
She took and washed the child.
From head to foot she washed him in tepid water; and heroes, and theirwrongs, became as dust in an ocean--of soap and water.
While this celestial ceremony proceeded, Margaret could not keep quiet.She hovered round the fortunate performer. She must have an apparenthand in it, if not a real. She put her finger into the water--to pavethe way for her boy, I suppose; for she could not have deceived herselfso far as to think Catherine would allow her to settle the temperature.During the ablution she kneeled down opposite the little Gerard, andprattled to him with amazing fluency; taking care, however, not toarticulate like grown-up people; for, how could a cherub understandtheir ridiculous pronunciation?
"I wish you could wash out THAT," said she, fixing her eyes on thelittle boy's hand.
"What?"
"What, have you not noticed? on his little finger."
Granny looked, and there was a little brown mole,
"Eh, but this is wonderful!" she cried. "Nature, my lass, y'are strong;and meddlesome to boot. Hast noticed such a mark on some one else? Tellthe truth, girl!"
"What, on him? Nay, mother, not I."
"Well then he has; and on the very spot. And you never noticed thatmuch. But, dear heart, I forgot; you han't known him from child to manas I have, I have had him hundreds o' times on my knees, the sameas this, and washed him from top to toe in luke-warm water." And sheswelled with conscious superiority; and Margaret looked meekly up to heras a woman beyond competition.
Catherine looked down from her dizzy height and moralized. She differedfrom other busy-bodies in this, that she now and then reflected: notdeeply; or of course I should take care not to print it.
"It is strange," said she, "how things come round and about, Life is buta whirligig. Leastways, we poor women, our lives are all cut upon onepattern. Wasn't I for washing out my Gerard's mole in his young days?'Oh, fie! here's a foul blot,' quo' I; and scrubbed away at it I didtill I made the poor wight cry; so then I thought 'twas time to giveover. And now says you to me, 'Mother,' says you, 'do try and wash youout o' my Gerard's finger,' says you. Think on't!"
"Wash it out?" cried Margaret; "I wouldn't for all the world, Why, it isthe sweetest bit in his little darling body. I'll kiss it morn and nighttill he that owned it first comes back to us three, Oh, bless you,my jewel of gold and silver, for being marked like your own daddy, tocomfort me."
And she kissed little Gerard's little mole; but she could not stopthere; she presently had him sprawling on her lap, and kissed hisback all over again and again, and seemed to worry him as wolf a lamb;Catherine looking on and smiling. She had seen a good many of thesesavage onslaughts in her day.
And this little sketch indicates the tenor of Margaret's life forseveral months, One or two small things occurred to her during that timewhich must be told; but I reserve them, since one string will serve formany glass beads. But while her boy's father was passing through thosefearful tempests of the soul, ending in the dead monastic calm, her lifemight fairly be summed in one great blissful word--Maternity.
You, who know what lies in that word, enlarge my little sketch, and seethe young mother nursing and washing, and dressing and undressing, andcrowing and gambolling with her first-born; then swifter than lightningdart your eye into Italy, and see the cold cloister; and the monkspassing like ghosts, eyes down, hands meekly crossed over bosoms dead toearthly feelings.
One of these cowled ghosts is he, whose return, full of love, and youth,and joy, that radiant young mother awaits.
In the valley of Grindelwald the traveller has on one side theperpendicular Alps, all rock, ice, and everlasting snow, towering abovethe clouds, and piercing to the sky; on his other hand little every-dayslopes, but green as emeralds, and studded with cows and pretty cots,and life; whereas those lofty neighbours stand leafless, lifeless,inhuman, sublime. Elsewhere sweet commonplaces of nature are apt to passunnoticed; but, fronting the grim Alps, they soothe, and even gentlystrike, the mind by contrast with their tremendous opposites. Such, intheir way, are the two halves of this story, rightly looked at; onthe Italian side rugged adventure, strong passion, blasphemy, vice,penitence, pure ice, holy snow, soaring direct at heaven. On the Dutchside, all on a humble scale and womanish, but ever green. And as apathway parts the ice towers of Grindelwald, aspiring to the sky, fromits little sunny braes, so here is bu
t a page between
"the Cloister and the Hearth."