Part 71 (1/2)
Giles said, ”Poor Gerard!” in a lower voice than seemed to belong to him.
Even Cornelis and Sybrandt felt a momentary remorse, and sat silent and gloomy.
But how to get the words read to them. They were loth to show their ignorance and their emotion to a stranger.
”The Dame Van Eyck?” said Kate, timidly.
”And so I will, Kate. She has a good heart. She loves Gerard, too. She will be glad to hear of him. I was short with her when she came here: but I will make my submission, and then she will tell me what my poor child says to me.”
She was soon at Margaret Van Eyck's house. Reicht took her into a room, and said, ”Bide a minute; she is at her orisons.”
There was a young woman in the room seated pensively by the stove; but she rose and courteously made way for the visitor.
”Thank you, young lady; the winter nights are cold, and your stove is a treat.” Catherine then, while warming her hands, inspected her companion furtively from head to foot, both inclusive. The young person wore an ordinary wimple, but her gown was trimmed with fur, which was, in those days, almost a sign of superior rank or wealth. But what most struck Catherine was the candour and modesty of the face. She felt sure of sympathy from so good a countenance, and began to gossip.
”Now, what think you brings me here, young lady? It is a letter: a letter from my poor boy that is far away in some savage part or other.
And I take shame to say that none of us can read it. I wonder whether you can read?”
”Yes.”
”Can ye, now? It is much to your credit, my dear. I dare say she won't be long; but every minute is an hour to a poor longing mother.”
”I will read it to you.”
”Bless you, my dear; bless you!”
In her unfeigned eagerness she never noticed the suppressed eagerness, with which the hand was slowly put out to take the letter. She did not see the tremor with which the fingers closed on it.
”Come then, read it to me, prithee. I am wearying for it.”
”The first words are, 'To my honoured parents.'”
”Ay! and he always did honour us, poor soul.”
”'G.o.d and the saints have you in his holy keeping, and bless you by night and by day. Your one harsh deed is forgotten; your years of love remembered.'”
Catherine laid her hand on her bosom, and sank back in her chair with one long sob.
”Then comes this, madam. It doth speak for itself; 'a long farewell.'”
”Ay, go on: bless you, girl; you give me sorry comfort. Still 'tis comfort.”
”'To my brothers Cornelis and Sybrandt:--Be content; you will see me no more!'”
”What does that mean? Ah.”