The Greatest Novels of Charles Reade. Charles Reade Reade

Gerard! Poor Margaret!” moaned the penitent.

      Clement's voice faltered at this a moment. But soon, by a strong effort, he recovered all his calmness.

      “His feeble nature yielded, body and soul, to the blow, He was stricken down with fever. He revived only to rebel against Heaven. He said, 'There is no God.'”

      “Poor, poor Gerard!”

      “Poor Gerard? thou feeble, foolish woman! Nay, wicked, impious Gerard. He plunged into vice, and soiled his eternal jewel: those you met him with were his daily companions; but know, rash creature, that the seeming woman you took to be his leman was but a boy, dressed in woman's habits to flout the others, a fair boy called Andrea. What that Andrea said to thee I know not; but be sure neither he, nor any layman, knows thy folly, This Gerard, rebel against Heaven, was no traitor to thee, unworthy.”

      The lady moaned like one in bodily agony, and the crucifix began to tremble in her trembling hands.

      “Courage!” said Clement. “Comfort is at hand.”

      “From crime he fell into despair, and bent on destroying his soul, he stood one night by Tiber, resolved on suicide. He saw one watching him. It was a bravo.”

      “Holy saints!”

      “He begged the bravo to despatch him; he offered him all his money, to slay him body and soul. The bravo would not. Then this desperate sinner, not softened even by that refusal, flung himself into Tiber.”

      “Ah!”

      “And the assassin saved his life. Thou hadst chosen for the task Lodovico, husband of Teresa, whom this Gerard had saved at sea, her and her infant child.”

      “He lives! he lives! he lives! I am faint.”

      The friar took the crucifix from her hands, fearing it might fall, A shower of tears relieved her. The friar gave her time; then continued calmly, “Ay, he lives; thanks to thee and thy wickedness, guided to his eternal good by an almighty and all-merciful hand. Thou art his greatest earthly benefactor.”

      “Where is he? where? where?”

      “What is that to thee?”

      “Only to see him alive. To beg him on my knees forgive me. I swear to you I will never presume again to—How could I? He knows all. Oh, shame! Father, does he know?”

      “All.”

      “Then never will I meet his eye; I should sink into the earth. But I would repair my crime. I would watch his life unseen. He shall rise in the world, whence I so nearly thrust him, poor soul; the Caesare, my family, are all-powerful in Rome; and I am near their head.”

      “My daughter,” said Clement coldly, “he you call Gerard needs nothing man can do for him. Saved by a miracle from double death, he has left the world, and taken refuge from sin and folly in the bosom of the Church.”

      “A priest?”

      “A priest, and a friar.”

      “A friar? Then you are not his confessor? Yet you know all. That gentle voice!”

      She raised her head slowly, and peered at him through her mask.

      The next moment she uttered a faint shriek, and lay with her brow upon his bare feet.

      CHAPTER LXXV

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      Clement sighed. He began to doubt whether he had taken the wisest course with a creature so passionate.

      But young as he was, he had already learned many lessons of ecclesiastical wisdom. For one thing he had been taught to pause, ie., in certain difficulties, neither to do nor to say anything, until the matter should clear itself a little.

      He therefore held his peace and prayed for wisdom.

      All he did was gently to withdraw his foot.

      But his penitent flung her arms round it with a piteous cry, and held it convulsively, and wept over it.

      And now the agony of shame, as well as penitence, she was in, showed itself by the bright red that crept over her very throat, as she lay quivering at his feet.

      “My daughter,” said Clement gently, “take courage. Torment thyself no more about this Gerard, who is not. As for me, I am Brother Clement, whom Heaven hath sent to thee this day to comfort thee, and help thee save thy soul. Thou last made me thy confessor, I claim, then, thine obedience.”

      “Oh, yes,” sobbed the penitent.

      “Leave this pilgrimage, and instant return to Rome. Penitence abroad is little worth. There where we live lie the temptations we must defeat, or perish; not fly in search of others more showy, but less lethal. Easy to wash the feet of strangers, masked ourselves, Hard to be merely meek and charitable with those about us.”

      “I'll never, never lay finger on her again.”

      “Nay, I speak not of servants only, but of dependents, kinsmen, friends. This be thy penance; the last thing at night, and the first thing after matins, call to mind thy sin, and God His goodness; and so be humble and gentle to the faults of those around thee. The world it courts the rich; but seek thou the poor: not beggars; these for the most are neither honest nor truly poor. But rather find out those who blush to seek thee, yet need thee sore. Giving to them shalt lend to Heaven. Marry a good son of the Church.”

      “Me? I will never marry.”

      “Thou wilt marry within the year. I do entreat and command thee to marry one that feareth God. For thou art very clay. Mated ill thou shalt be naught. But wedding a worthy husband thou mayest, Dei gratia, live a pious princess; ay, and die a saint.”

      “I?”

      “Thou.”

      He then desired her to rise and go about the good work he had set her.

      She rose to her knees, and removing her mask, cast an eloquent look upon him, then lowered her eyes meekly.

      “I will obey you as I would an angel. How happy I am, yet unhappy; for oh, my heart tells me I shall never look on you again. I will not go till I have dried your feet.”

      “It needs not. I have excused thee this bootless penance.”

      “'Tis no penance to me. Ah! you do not forgive me, if you will not let me dry your poor feet.”

      “So be it then,” said Clement resignedly; and thought to himself, “Levius quid foemina.”

      But these weak creatures, that gravitate towards the small, as heavenly bodies towards the great, have yet their own flashes of angelic intelligence.

      When the princess had dried the friar's feet, she looked at him with tears in her beautiful eyes, and murmured with singular tenderness and goodness—

      “I will have masses said for her soul. May I?” she added timidly.

      This brought a faint blush into the monk's cheek, and moistened his cold blue eye. It came so suddenly from one he was just rating so low.

      “It is a gracious thought,” he said. “Do as thou wilt: often such acts fall back on the doer like blessed dew. I am thy confessor, not hers; thine is the soul I must now do my all to save, or woe be to my own. My daughter, my dear daughter, I see good and ill angels fighting for thy soul this day, ay, this moment; oh, fight thou on thine own side. Dost thou remember all I bade thee?”

      “Remember!” said the princess. “Sweet saint, each syllable of thine is graved in my heart.”

      “But one word more, then. Pray much to Christ, and little to his saints.”

      “I will.”

      “And that is the best word