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 doth 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 bustled 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 face in silence.
* * * * *
That very night Gerard flung himself into the Tiber. And, that very hour
she heard him speak her name, he cried aloud in death's jaws and
despair's.
"Margaret!"
Account for it those who can. I cannot.