The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

he groaned, and wrung his hands.

      “What is the hour?” asked the lackey.

      “Four hours past midnight.”

      “My pretty lad,” said the lackey solemnly, “say a mass for thy friend's soul: for he is not among living men.”

      The morning broke. Worn out with fatigue, Andrea and Pietro went home, heart sick.

      The days rolled on, mute as the Tiber as to Gerard's fate.

      CHAPTER LXVII

       Table of Contents

      It would indeed have been strange if with such barren data as they possessed, those men could have read the handwriting on the river's bank.

      For there on that spot an event had just occurred, which, take it altogether, was perhaps without a parallel in the history of mankind, and may remain so to the end of time.

      But it shall be told in a very few words, partly by me, partly by an actor in the scene.

      Gerard, then, after writing his brief adieu to Pietro and Andrea, had stolen down to the river at nightfall.

      He had taken his measures with a dogged resolution not uncommon in those who are bent on self-destruction. He filled his pockets with all the silver and copper he possessed, that he might sink the surer; and so provided, hurried to a part of the stream that he had seen was little frequented.

      There are some, especially women, who look about to make sure there is somebody at hand.

      But this resolute wretch looked about him to make sure there was nobody.

      And to his annoyance, he observed a single figure leaning against the corner of an alley. So he affected to stroll carelessly away; but returned to the spot.

      Lo! the same figure emerged from a side street and loitered about.

      “Can he be watching me? Can he know what I am here for?” thought Gerard. “Impossible.”

      He went briskly off, walked along a street or two, made a detour and came back.

      The man had vanished. But lo! on Gerard looking all round, to make sure, there he was a few yards behind, apparently fastening his shoe.

      Gerard saw he was watched, and at this moment observed in the moonlight a steel gauntlet in his sentinel's hand.

      Then he knew it was an assassin.

      Strange to say, it never occurred to him that his was the life aimed at. To be sure he was not aware he had an enemy in the world.

      He turned and walked up to the bravo. “My good friend,” said he eagerly, “sell me thine arm! a single stroke! See, here is all I have;” and he forced his money into the bravo's hands.

      “Oh, prithee! prithee! do one good deed, and rid me of my hateful life!” and even while speaking he undid his doublet and bared his bosom.

      The man stared in his face.

      “Why do ye hesitate?” shrieked Gerard. “Have ye no bowels? Is it so much pains to lift your arm and fall it? Is it because I am poor, and can't give ye gold? Useless wretch, canst only strike a man behind; not look one in the face. There, then, do but turn thy head and hold thy tongue!”

      And with a snarl of contempt he ran from him, and flung himself into the water.

      “Margaret!”

      At the heavy plunge of his body in the stream the bravo seemed to recover from a stupor. He ran to the bank, and with a strange cry the assassin plunged in after the self-destroyer.

      What followed will be related by the assassin.

      CHAPTER LXVIII

       Table of Contents

      A woman has her own troubles, as a man has his. And we male writers seldom do more than indicate the griefs of the other sex. The intelligence of the female reader must come to our aid, and fill up our cold outlines. So have I indicated, rather than described, what Margaret Brandt went through up to that eventful day, when she entered Eli's house an enemy, read her sweetheart's letter, and remained a 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 reserve she had always a plausible reason ready; and never hinted at the true one, which was this; there were two men in that house at sight of whom she shuddered with instinctive antipathy and dread. She had read wickedness and hatred in their faces, and mysterious signals of secret intelligence. She preferred to receive Catherine and her daughter at home. The former went to see her every day, and was wrapped up in the expected event.

      Catherine was one of those females whose office is to multiply, and rear the multiplied: who, when at last they consent to leave off pelting one out of every room in the house with babies, hover about the fair scourges that are still in full swing, and do so cluck, they seem to multiply by proxy. It was in this spirit she entreated Eli to let her stay at Rotterdam, while he went back to Tergou.

      “The poor lass hath not a soul about her, that knows anything about anything. What avail a pair o' soldiers? Why, that sort o' cattle should be 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's helplessness, which had cost her such a struggle, stood her in good stead now.

      Adversity's iron hand had forced her to battle the lassitude that overpowers 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 as water, but safe; with a little face by her side, and the heaven of maternity 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 hath been as good to thee as to e'er a woman born; and do but bethink thee it might 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 Gerard were here to see it. 'Tis strange; I bore him well enow to be away from me in my sorrow; but oh, it does seem so hard he should not share my joy. Prithee, prithee, come to me, Gerard! dear, dear Gerard!” And she stretched out her feeble arms.

      Catherine hustled about, but avoided Margaret's eyes; for she could not restrain her own tears at hearing her own absent child thus earnestly addressed.

      Presently, turning round, she found Margaret looking at her with a singular 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 came back to me, 'Margaret!' So. Yet methought 'twas not his happy voice. But that might be the distance. All voices go off sad like at a distance. 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 sweet eyes turned and gloated on the little