CHAPTER LXX
A WOMAN has her own troubles, as a man has his.
And we male writers seldom do more than indicate the griefs of the othersex. The intelligence of the female reader must come to our aid, andfill up our cold outlines. So have I indicated, rather than described,what Margaret Brandt went through up to that eventful day, when sheentered Eli's house an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and remaineda friend.
And now a woman's greatest trial drew near, and Gerard far away.
She availed herself but little of Eli's sudden favour: for this reserveshe had always a plausible reason ready; and never hinted at the trueone, which was this; there were two men in that house at sight of whomshe shuddered with instinctive antipathy and dread. She had readwickedness and hatred in their faces, and mysterious signals of secretintelligence. She preferred to receive Catherine and her daughter athome. The former went to see her every day, and was wrapped up in theexpected event.
Catherine was one of those females whose office is to multiply, and rearthe multiplied: who, when at last they consent to leave off pelting oneout of every room in the house with babies, hover about the fairscourges that are still in full swing, and do so cluck, they seem tomultiply by proxy. It was in this spirit she entreated Eli to let herstay at Rotterdam while he went back to Tergou.
"The poor lass hath not a soul about her, that knows anything aboutanything. What avail a pair o' soldiers? Why that sort o' cattle shouldbe putten out o' doors the first, at such an a time."
Need I say that this was a great comfort to Margaret.
Poor soul, she was full of anxiety as the time drew near.
She should die; and Gerard away.
But things balance themselves. Her poverty, and her father'shelplessness, which had cost her such a struggle, stood her in goodstead now.
Adversity's iron hand had forced her to battle the lassitude thatoverpowers the rich of her sex, and to be for ever on her feet, working.She kept this up to the last by Catherine's advice.
And so it was, that one fine evening just at sunset, she lay weak aswater, but safe; with a little face by her side, and the heaven ofmaternity opening on her.
* * * * *
"Why dost weep, sweetheart? All of a sudden?"
"He is not here to see it."
"Ah, well, lass, he will be here ere 'tis weaned. Meantime, God hathbeen as good to thee as to e'er a woman born: and do but bethink thee itmight have been a girl; didn't my very own Kate threaten me with one:and here we have got the bonniest boy in Holland, and a rare heavy one,the saints be praised for't."
"Ay, mother, I am but a sorry, ungrateful wretch to weep. If only Gerardwere here to see it. 'Tis strange; I bore him well enow to be away fromme in my sorrow; but, oh, it doth seem so hard he should not share myjoy. Prithee, prithee, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear, Gerard!" And shestretched out her feeble arms.
Catherine bustled about, but avoided Margaret's eyes; for she could notrestrain her own tears at hearing her own absent child thus earnestlyaddressed.
Presently, turning round, she found Margaret looking at her with asingular expression. "Heard you nought?"
"No, my lamb. What?"
"I did cry on Gerard, but now."
"Ay, ay, sure I heard that."
"Well, he answered me."
"Tush, girl: say not that."
"Mother, as sure as I lie here, with his boy by my side, his voice cameback to me, 'Margaret!' So. Yet methought 'twas not his _happy_ voice.But that might be the distance. All voices go off sad like at adistance. Why art not happy, sweetheart? and I so happy this night?Mother, I seem never to have felt a pain or known a care." And her sweeteyes turned and gloated on the little face in silence.
* * * * *
That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And, that very hourshe heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws anddespair's.
"Margaret!"
Account for it those who can. I cannot.
The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages Page 72
