The Hearth
A CATHERINE is not an unmixed good in a strange house. The governing
power is strong in her. She has scarce crossed the threshold ere the
utensils seem to brighten; the hearth to sweep itself; the windows to
let in more light; and the soul of an enormous cricket to animate the
dwelling-place. But this cricket is a Busy Body. And that is a
tremendous character. It has no discrimination. It sets everything to
rights, and everybody. Now many things are the better for being set to
rights. But everything is not. Everything is the one thing that won't
stand being set to rights; except in that calm and cool retreat, the
grave.
Catherine altered the position of every chair and table in Margaret's
house; 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 invited
the aid of Denys and Martin: and, on the poor simple-minded fellows
asking her earnestly what service they could be, she told them they
might make themselves comparatively useful by going for a little walk.
So far so good. But she intimated further that should the promenade
extend into the middle of next week all the better. This was not
ingratiating.
The subsequent conduct of the strong under the yoke of the weak might
have propitiated a she-bear with three cubs, one sickly. They generally
slipped out of the house at daybreak: and stole in like thieves at
night: and if by any chance they were at home, they went about like cats
on a wall tipped with broken glass, and wearing awe-struck visages, and
a general air of subjugation and depression.
But all would not do. Their very presence was ill timed: and jarred upon
Catherine's nerves.
Did instinct whisper, a pair of depopulators had no business in a house
with multipliers twain?
The breastplate is no armour against a female tongue: and Catherine ran
infinite pins and needles of speech into them. In a word, when Margaret
came down stairs, she found the kitchen swept of heroes.
Martin, old and stiff, had retreated no farther than the street, and
with 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 fixture
in that luminary. She asked for Denys. "Good, kind Denys; he will be
right pleased to see me about again."
Catherine, wiping a bowl with now superfluous vigour, told her Denys was
gone to his friends in Burgundy. "And high time. Hasn't been anigh them
this three years, by all accounts."
"What, gone without bidding me farewell?" said Margaret, opening two
tender eyes like full-blown violets.
Catherine reddened. For this new view of the matter set her conscience
pricking 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 open
violets.
Catherine saw out of the corner of her eye, and without taking a bit of
open notice, slipped off and lavished hospitality and tenderness on the
surviving 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 not
changing and changing. I meddle wi' nobody here: and nobody meddles wi'
me."
"Oh, you nasty, cross, old wretch!" screamed Catherine, passing in a
moment from treacle to sharpest vinegar. And she flounced back into the
house.
On calm reflection she had a little cry. Then she half reconciled
herself to her conduct by vowing to be so kind Margaret should never
miss her plagues of soldiers. But, feeling still a little uneasy, she
dispersed 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 their
wrongs, 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 apparent
hand in it, if not a real. She put her finger into the water--to pave
the way for her boy, I suppose; for she could not have deceived herself
so far as to think Catherine would allow her to settle the temperature.
During the ablution she kneeled down opposite the little Gerard, and
prattled to him with amazing fluency; taking care, however, not to
articulate like grown-up people; for, how could a cherub understand
_their_ ridiculous pronunciation?
"I wish you could wash out THAT," said she, fixing her eyes on the
little 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. Tell
the truth, girl!"
"What, on _him_? Nay, mother, not I."
"Well then he has; and on the very spot. And you never noticed that
much. But, dear heart, I forgot; you han't known him from child to man
as I have. I have had him hundreds o' times on my knees, the same as
this, and washed him from top to toe in lu-warm water." And she swelled
with conscious superiority; and Margaret looked meekly up to her as a
woman beyond competition.
Catherine looked down from her dizzy height, and moralized. She differed
from other busy-bodies in this, that she now and then reflected: not
deeply; or of course I should take care not to print it.
"It is strange," said she, "how things come round and about. Life is but
a whirligig. Leastways, we poor women, _our_ lives are cut upon one
pattern. Wasn't I for washing out my Gerard's mole in his young days?
'Oh, fie! her's a foul blot,' quo' I; and scrubbed away at it I did till
I made the poor wight cry; so then I thought 'twas time to give over.
And now says you to me, 'Mother,' says you, 'do try and wash yon out o'
my Gerard's finger,' says you. Think on't!"
"Wash it out?" cried Margaret; "I wouldn't for all the world. Why it is
the sweetest bit in his little darling body. I'll kiss it morn and night
till 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 to
comfort me."
And she kissed little Gerard's little mole; but she could not stop
there; she presently had him sprawling on her lap, and kissed his back
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 these
savage onslaughts in her day.
And this little sketch indicates the tenor of Margaret's life for
several months. One or two small things occurred to her during that
time, which must be told; but I reserve them, since one string will
serve for many glass beads. But, while her boy's father was passing
through those fearful tempests of the soul ending in the dead monastic
calm, her life might fairly be summed in one great blissful word--
Maternity.
You, who know what lies in that word, enlarge my little sketch, and see
the young mother nursing and washing, and dressing and undressing, and
crowing and gambolling with her first-born; then swifter than lightning
dart your eye into Italy, and see the cold cloister; and the monks
passing like ghosts, eyes down, hands meekly crossed over bosoms dead to
earthly 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 the
perpendicular Alps, all rock, ice, and everlasting snow, towering above
the clouds, and piercing to the sky; on his other hand little every-day
slopes, 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 pass
unnoticed; but, fronting the grim Alps, they soothe, and even gently
strike, the mind by contrast with their tremendous opposites. Such, in
their way, are the two halves of this story, rightfully looked at; on
the Italian side rugged adventure, strong passion, blasphemy, vice,
penitence, pure ice, holy snow, soaring direct at heaven. On the Dutch
side, all on a humble scale and womanish, but ever green. And as a
pathway parts the ice towers of Grindelwald, aspiring to the sky, from
its little sunny braes, so here is but a page between "the Cloister and
the Hearth."