Part 147 (1/2)
”Part, Gerard? Never: we have seen what comes of parting. Part? Why you have not heard half my story; no nor the t.i.the. 'Tis not for thy mere comfort I take thee to Gouda manse. Hear me!”
”I may not. Thy very voice is a temptation with its music, memory's delight.”
”But I say you shall hear me, Gerard, for forth this place I go not unheard.”
”Then must we part by other means,” said Clement, sadly.
”Alack! what other means? Wouldst put me to thine own door, being the stronger?”
”Nay, Margaret, well thou knowest I would suffer many deaths rather than put force on thee; thy sweet body is dearer to me than my own: but a million times dearer to me are our immortal souls, both thine and mine.
I have withstood this direst temptation of all long enow. Now I must fly it: farewell! farewell!”
He made to the door, and had actually opened it and got half out, when she darted after and caught him by the arm.
”Nay, then another must speak for me. I thought to reward thee for yielding to me: but unkind that thou art, I need his help I find; turn then this way one moment.”
”Nay, nay.”
”But I say ay! And then turn thy back on us an thou canst.” She somewhat relaxed her grasp, thinking he would never deny her so small a favour.
But at this he saw his opportunity and seized it.
”Fly, Clement, fly!” he almost shrieked, and, his religious enthusiasm giving him for a moment his old strength, he burst wildly away from her, and after a few steps bounded over the little stream and ran beside it, but finding he was not followed, stopped and looked back.
She was lying on her face, with her hands spread out.
Yes, without meaning it, he had thrown her down and hurt her.
When he saw that, he groaned and turned back a step; but suddenly, by another impulse, flung himself into the icy water instead.
”There, kill my body!” he cried, ”but save my soul!”
Whilst he stood there, up to his throat in liquid ice, so to speak, Margaret uttered one long, piteous moan, and rose to her knees.
He saw her as plain almost as in midday. Saw her face pale and her eyes glistening; and then in the still night he heard these words:
”Oh, G.o.d! thou that knowest all, thou seest how I am used. Forgive me then! For I will not live another day.” With this she suddenly started to her feet, and flew like some wild creature, wounded to death, close by his miserable hiding-place, shrieking: ”CRUEL!--CRUEL!--CRUEL!--CRUEL!”
What manifold anguish may burst from a human heart in a single syllable.
There were wounded love, and wounded pride, and despair, and coming madness, all in that piteous cry. Clement heard, and it froze his heart with terror and remorse, worse than the icy water chilled the marrow of his bones.
He felt he had driven her from him for ever, and in the midst of his dismal triumph, the greatest he had won, there came an almost incontrollable impulse to curse the Church, to curse religion itself, for exacting such savage cruelty from mortal man. At last he crawled half dead out of the water, and staggered to his den. ”I am safe here,”
he groaned; ”she will never come near me again; unmanly, ungrateful wretch that I am.” And he flung his emaciated, frozen body down on the floor, not without a secret hope that it might never rise thence alive.
But presently he saw by the hour-gla.s.s that it was past midnight. On this he rose slowly and took off his wet things, and moaning all the time at the pain he had caused her he loved, put on the old hermit's cilice of bristles, and over that his breastplate. He had never worn either of these before, doubting himself worthy to don the arms of that tried soldier. But now he must give himself every aid: the bristles might distract his earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be holy virtue in the breastplate.
[Ill.u.s.tration: HE SCANNED, WITH GREAT TEARFUL EYES, THIS STRANGE FIGURE THAT LOOKED SO WILD]