Part 148 (1/2)
”Oh fie, fie! eh, my sweet woman, speak not so. Is any man that breathes worth your child's life?”
”My child! where is he? Why, Reicht, I have left him behind. Oh shame!
is it possible I can love him to that degree as to forget my child? Ah!
I am rightly served for it.”
And she sat down, and faithful Reicht beside her, and they sobbed in one another's arms.
After a while Margaret left off sobbing and said, doggedly, ”Let us go home.”
”Ay, but the bairn?”
”Oh! he is well where he is. My heart is turned against my very child.
_He_ cares nought for him; wouldn't see him, nor hear speak of him; and I took him there so proud, and made his hair so nice I did, and put his new frock and cowl on him. Nay, turn about: it's his child as well as mine; let him keep it awhile: mayhap that will learn him to think more of its mother and his own.”
”High words off an empty stomach,” said Reicht.
”Time will show. Come thou home.”
They departed, and Time did show quicker than he levels abbeys, for at the second step Margaret stopped, and could neither go one way nor the other, but stood stock still.
”Reicht,” said she, piteously, ”what else have I on earth? I cannot.”
”Who ever said you could? Think you I paid attention? Words are woman's breath. Come back for him without more ado; 'tis time we were in our beds, much more he.”
Reicht led the way, and Margaret followed readily enough in that direction; but as they drew near the cell she stopped again.
”Reicht, go you and ask him will he give me back my boy; for I could not bear the sight of him.”
”Alas! mistress, this do seem a sorry ending after all that hath been betwixt you twain. Bethink thee now, doth thine heart whisper no excuse for him? dost verily hate him for whom thou hast waited so long? Oh weary world!”
”Hate him, Reicht? I would not harm a hair of his head for all that is in nature; but look on him I cannot; I have taken a horror of him. Oh!
when I think of all I have suffered for him, and what I came here this night to do for him, and brought my own darling to kiss him and call him father. Ah; Luke, my poor chap, my wound showeth me thine. I have thought too little of thy pangs, whose true affection I despised: and now my own is despised. Reicht, if the poor lad was here now, he would have a good chance.”
”Well, he is not far off,” said Reicht Heynes, but somehow she did not say it with alacrity.
”Speak not to me of any man,” said Margaret, bitterly, ”I hate them all.”
”For the sake of one?”
”Flout me not, but prithee go forward and get me what _is_ my own, my sole joy in the world. Thou knowest I am on thorns till I have him to my bosom again.”
Reicht went forward; Margaret sat by the roadside and covered her face with her ap.r.o.n, and rocked herself after the manner of her country, for her soul was full of bitterness and grief. So severe, indeed, was the internal conflict, that she did not hear Reicht running back to her, and started violently when the young woman laid a hand upon her shoulder.
”Mistress Margaret!” said Reicht, quietly, ”take a fool's advice that loves ye. Go softly to yon cave wi' all the ears and eyes your mother ever gave you.”
”Why?--what,--Reicht?” stammered Margaret.
”I thought the cave was afire, 'twas so light inside; and there were voices.”
”Voices?”