The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

      “Ay,” said Sweynheim, “and with those wits would he could tell us how to get this tired beast to the next town.”

      “Yea,” said Sweynheim, “and where to find money to pay for his meat and ours when we get there.”

      “I will try,” said Clement. “Free the mule of the cart, and of all harness but the bare halter.”

      This was done, and the animal immediately lay down and rolled on his back in the dust like a kitten. Whilst he was thus employed, Clement assured them he would rise up a new mule.

      “His Creator hath taught him this art to refresh himself, which the nobler horse knoweth not. Now, with regard to money, know that a worthy Englishman hath entrusted me with a certain sum to bestow in charity. To whom can I better give a stranger's money than to strangers? Take it, then, and be kind to some Englishman or other stranger in his need; and may all nations learn to love one another one day.”

      The tears stood in the honest workmen's eyes. They took the money with heartfelt thanks.

      “It is your nation we are bound to thank and bless, good father, if we but knew it.”

      “My nation is the Church.”

      Clement was then for bidding them farewell, but the honest fellows implored him to wait a little; they had no silver nor gold, but they had something they could give their benefactor, They took the press out of the cart, and while Clement fed the mule, they hustled about, now on the white hot road, now in the deep cool shade, now half in and half out, and presently printed a quarto sheet of eight pages, which was already set up. They had not type enough to print two sheets at a time. When, after the slower preliminaries, the printed sheet was pulled all in a moment, Clement was amazed in turn.

      “What, are all these words really fast upon the paper?” said he. “Is it verily certain they will not go as swiftly as they came? And you took me for a magician! 'Tis 'Augustine de civitate Dei.' My sons, you carry here the very wings of knowledge. Oh, never abuse this great craft! Print no ill books! They would fly abroad countless as locusts, and lay waste men's souls.”

      The workmen said they would sooner put their hands under the screw than so abuse their goodly craft.

      And so they parted.

      There is nothing but meeting and parting in this world.

      At a town in Tuscany the holy friar had a sudden and strange recontre with the past. He fell in with one of those motley assemblages of patricians and plebeians, piety and profligacy, “a company of pilgrims;” a subject too well painted by others for me to go and daub.

      They were in an immense barn belonging to the inn, Clement, dusty and wearied, and no lover of idle gossip, sat in a corner studying the Englishman's hours, and making them out as much by his own Dutch as by the Latin version.

      Presently a servant brought a bucket half full of water, and put it down at his feet. A female servant followed with two towels. And then a woman came forward, and crossing herself, kneeled down without a word at the bucket-side, removed her sleeves entirely, and motioned to him to put his feet into the water. It was some lady of rank doing penance. She wore a mask scarce an inch broad, but effectual. Moreover, she handled the friar's feet more delicately than those do who are born to such offices.

      These penances were not uncommon; and Clement, though he had little faith in this form of contrition, received the services of the incognita as a matter of course. But presently she sighed deeply, and with her heartfelt sigh and her head bent low over her menial office, she seemed so bowed with penitence, that he pitied her, and said calmly but gently, “Can I aught for your soul's weal, my daughter?”

      She shook her head with a faint sob. “Nought, holy father, nought; only to hear the sin of her who is most unworthy to touch thy holy feet. 'Tis part of my penance to tell sinless men how vile I am.”

      “Speak, my daughter.”

      “Father,” said the lady, bending lower and lower, “these hands of mine look white, but they are stained with blood—the blood of the man I loved. Alas! you withdraw your foot. Ah me! What shall I do? All holy things shrink from me.”

      “Culpa mea! culpa mea!” said Clement eagerly. “My daughter, it was an unworthy movement of earthly weakness, for which I shall do penance. Judge not the Church by her feebler servants, Not her foot, but her bosom, is offered to thee, repenting truly. Take courage, then, and purge thy conscience of its load.”

      On this the lady, in a trembling whisper, and hurriedly, and cringing a little, as if she feared the Church would strike her bodily for what she had done, made this confession.

      “He was a stranger, and base-born, but beautiful as Spring, and wise beyond his years. I loved him, I had not the prudence to conceal my love. Nobles courted me. I ne'er thought one of humble birth could reject me. I showed him my heart oh, shame of my sex! He drew back; yet he admired me; but innocently, He loved another; and he was constant. I resorted to a woman's wiles, They availed not. I borrowed the wickedness of men, and threatened his life, and to tell his true lover he died false to her, Ah! you shrink your foot trembles. Am I not a monster? Then he wept and prayed to me for mercy; then my good angel helped me; I bade him leave Rome. Gerard, Gerard, why did you not obey me? I thought he was gone. But two months after this I met him, Never shall I forget it. I was descending the Tiber in my galley, when he came up it with a gay company, and at his side a woman beautiful as an angel, but bold and bad. That woman claimed me aloud for her rival. Traitor and hypocrite, he had exposed me to her, and to all the loose tongues in Rome. In terror and revenge I hired-a bravo. When he was gone on his bloody errand, I wavered too late. The dagger I had hired struck, He never came back to his lodgings. He was dead. Alas! perhaps he was not so much to blame: none have ever cast his name in my teeth. His poor body is not found: or I should kiss its wounds; and slay myself upon it. All around his very name seems silent as the grave, to which this murderous hand hath sent him.” (Clement's eye was drawn by her movement. He recognized her shapely arm, and soft white hand.) “And oh! he was so young to die. A poor thoughtless boy, that had fallen a victim to that bad woman's arts, and she had made him tell her everything. Monster of cruelty, what penance can avail me? Oh, holy father, what shall I do?”

      Clement's lips moved in prayer, but he was silent. He could not see his duty clear.

      Then she took his feet and began to dry them. She rested his foot upon her soft arm, and pressed it with the towel so gently she seemed incapable of hurting a fly. Yet her lips had just told another story, and a true one.

      While Clement was still praying for wisdom, a tear fell upon his foot. It decided him. “My daughter,” said he, “I myself have been a great sinner.”

      “You, father?”

      “I; quite as great a sinner as thou; though not in the same way. The devil has gins and snares, as well as traps. But penitence softened my impious heart, and then gratitude remoulded it. Therefore, seeing you penitent, I hope you can be grateful to Him, who has been more merciful to you than you have to your fellow-creature. Daughter, the Church sends you comfort.”

      “Comfort to me? ah! never! unless it can raise my victim from the dead.”

      “Take this crucifix in thy hand, fix thine eyes on it, and listen to me,” was all the reply.

      “Yes, father; but let me thoroughly dry your feet first; 'tis ill sitting in wet feet; and you are the holiest man of all whose feet I have washed. I know it by your voice.”

      “Woman, I am not. As for my feet, they can wait their turn. Obey thou me.

      “Yes, father,” said the lady humbly. But with a woman's evasive pertinacity she wreathed one towel swiftly round the foot she was drying, and placed his other foot on the dry napkin; then obeyed his command.

      And as she bowed over the crucifix, the low, solemn tones of the friar fell upon her ear, and his words soon made her whole body quiver with various emotion, in quick succession.

      “My daughter, he you murdered—in intent—was