Where is the woman that cannot act a part? Where is she who will not
do it, and do it well, to save the man she loves? Nature on these great
occasions comes to the aid of the simplest of the sex, and teaches her
to throw dust in Solomon's eyes. The men had no sooner retired than
Margaret stepped out of bed, and opened the long chest on which she had
been lying down in her skirt and petticoat and stockings, and nightdress
over all; and put the lid, bed-clothes and all, against the wall: then
glided to the door and listened. The footsteps died away through her
father's room and down the stairs.
Now in that chest there was a peculiarity that it was almost impossible
for a stranger to detect. A part of the boarding of the room had been
broken, and Gerard being applied to to make it look neater, and being
short of materials, had ingeniously sawed away a space sufficient just
to admit Margaret's soi-disant bed, and with the materials thus acquired
he had repaired the whole room. As for the bed or chest, it really
rested on the rafters a foot below the boards. Consequently it was full
two feet deep, though it looked scarce one.
All was quiet. Margaret kneeled and gave thanks to Heaven. Then she
glided from the door and leaned over the chest, and whispered tenderly,
“Gerard!”
Gerard did not reply.
She then whispered a little louder, “Gerard, all is safe, thank Heaven!
You may rise; but oh! be cautious!”
Gerard made no reply.
She laid her hand upon his shoulder--“Gerard!”
No reply.
“Oh, what is this?” she cried, and her hands ran wildly over his face
and his bosom. She took him by the shoulders; she shook him; she lifted
him; but he escaped from her trembling hands, and fell back, not like a
man, but like a body. A great dread fell on her. The lid had been down.
She had lain upon it. The men had been some time in the room. With all
the strength of frenzy she tore him out of the chest. She bore him in
her arms to the window. She dashed the window open. The sweet air came
in. She laid him in it and in the moonlight. His face was the colour of
ashes; his body was all limp and motionless. She felt his heart. Horror!
it was as still as the rest! Horror of horrors! she had stifled him with
her own body.
The mind cannot all at once believe so great and sudden and strange a
calamity. Gerard, who had got alive into that chest scarce five minutes
ago, how could he be dead?
She called him by all the endearing names that heart could think or
tongue could frame. She kissed him and fondled him and coaxed him and
implored him to speak to her.
No answer to words of love, such as she had never uttered to him before,
nor thought she could utter. Then the poor creature, trembling all over,
began to say over that ashy face little foolish things that were at once
terrible and pitiable.
“Oh, Gerard! I am very sorry you are dead. I am very sorry I have killed
you. Forgive me for not letting the men take you; it would have been
better than this. Oh, Gerard! I am very, very sorry for what I have
done.” Then she began suddenly to rave.
“No! no! such things can't be, or there is no God. It is monstrous. How
can my Gerard be dead? How can I have killed my Gerard? I love him. Oh,
God! you know how I love him. He does not. I never told him. If he knew
my heart, he would speak to me, he would not be so deaf to his poor
Margaret. It is all a trick to make me cry out and betray him; but no!
I love him too well for that. I'll choke first.” And she seized her own
throat, to check her wild desire to scream in her terror and anguish.
“If he would but say one word. Oh, Gerard! don't die without a word.
Have mercy on me and scold me, but speak to me: if you are angry with
me, scold me! curse me! I deserve it: the idiot that killed the man she
loved better than herself. Ah I am a murderess. The worst in all the
world. Help! help! I have murdered him. Ah! ah! ah! ah! ah!”
She tore her hair, and uttered shriek after shriek, so wild, so
piercing, they fell like a knell upon the ears of Dierich Brower and his
men. All started to their feet and looked at one another.