Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  “And the mother?”

  “She is very quiet, very submissive under it all.”

  “She knows the worst, then?”

  “She guesses it, and bears up wonderfully. How it will be by-and-by, when the worst is over, I don’t like, cannot bear to think of; you must come and talk to her then?”

  “I?” he said, “no, that will never do; she has her husband.”

  “He’s a wretch! I have no patience with him. As cold as an icicle.”

  “My dear Anne,” he said, reprovingly.

  “Oh! my dear Tom, I am so glad you are not like him,” and then she burst out crying, a most unusual thing for her, “and I am so glad now I have no children: it must be dreadful to lose them. After this I will be the most contented little mortal going.”

  And she went back again to Amy, leaving her husband somewhat surprised, and regretful that he should have consented to have allowed her to remain in a scene evidently too much for her.

  Bertie had roused again. “Where’s Missy? I want Missy?” he said, feebly.

  The cry went like a sharp knife through the mother’s heart. She brought him toys and pictures, telling him the history of each, and quieting him as well as she could. At first he was amused and interested, but he soon wearied, and said again, “I want Missy.”

  “Is it Alice he is crying for?” whispered Anne, as Amy moved away, and sent Hannah to take her place by the bed.

  “No, not Alice. Oh! Anne, he will break my heart. I had so hoped he had forgotten her.”

  Again the little fretful cry sounded. “Tell Missy to come.”

  “I must go,” said Amy, “there is no help for it.”

  Frances had thrown herself despairingly on the bed, shutting out Jane, her maid, who had tried to comfort her, and even Mrs. Linchmore. At one moment she would not believe there was no hope — would not, — the next she wept and moaned with the certainty that there could be none; as she saw Amy enter, she covered her face with her hands, and groaned aloud; thinking there was but one reason the mother could have in coming to see her, and that was to upbraid her for having caused the death of her boy.

  “Miss Strickland I said you should not see my boy, but I cannot refuse his,—” Amy faltered,— “perhaps last request. He is asking for you. Will you come?”

  “Come!” exclaimed Frances, springing from the bed, and tossing back the hair from off her throbbing temples, “do you think I could refuse him — you, anything? and oh! forgive me, Mrs. Vavasour, for having caused you all this utter misery.”

  “It is a fearful punishment,” said Amy, looking at the ravages grief and remorse had made in her beautiful face.

  “Fearful!” she replied, “it will haunt me through life. Think of that, and say one word of forgiveness, only one.”

  “I cannot forgive you, Miss Strickland. For my poor Bertie’s illness I do; that was an unintentional injury, but his mother’s misery — broken heart, no; that you might have prevented, and — and, God help me, but I cannot forgive that.”

  “How could I hope you would,” said Frances despairingly, as she prepared to follow Amy.

  “You must control your grief, Miss Strickland; be calm and passionless as of old. My boy must see no tears.”

  “I wonder I have any to shed,” she replied, “and God knows how I shall bear to see him.”

  Anne looked bewildered as the door opened and Amy returned with Frances, and still more so when she saw the child’s face light up with pleasure, and he tried in his feeble way to clasp her neck.

  “I cannot bear to look at it,” said Amy, as she softly left the room.

  “Naughty! naughty Missy,” he said as he kissed her.

  Frances felt as if she could have died then, without one sigh of regret. For a moment after he released her she did not raise her head.

  “My dear, — dear Bertie,” she said, struggling with her tears. Then presently she sat down and fondled and stroked his thin small hand, soothing and coaxing him as well as she was able. If her heart could have broken, surely it would have broken then.

  “Ah! he’s thin enough now, Miss,” observed Nurse, “even that sour stiff-backed lady would have a hard matter to call him fat. He’s never been the same since she looked at him with those sharp ferret eyes of hers;” and then she moved away and went and seated herself by the fire, recounting the whole history to Anne, of not only her dislike for Miss Barker, but the reason of Bertie’s apparent partiality for Frances; while the latter sat and listened to Bertie’s talk, he wounding and opening her heart afresh at every word he uttered.

  “Naughty Missy not to come to Bertie!” he said; and Frances could not tell him why she had stayed away; she could only remain silent and so allow him to conclude she had been unkind.

  She took up some of the books Amy had left.

  “Here are pretty pictures,” she said, “shall Missy tell you some of the nice stories?”

  “No, you mustn’t. Mamma tells me them; I like her to, she tells them so pretty.”

  “Is there nothing Missy can do for you? Shall she sing you a song?”

  “Mamma sings ‘Gentle Jesus;’ you don’t know one so pretty do you?”

  “No, Bertie, I am sure I don’t.”

  Presently his little face brightened. “I should like you to get me kitty,” he said.

  “Yes. Who is kitty though?”

  “That’s what Master Bertie cried for the very day he was taken ill. It’s the kitten he saw in the village, Miss,” said Hannah.

  “Bertie shall have kitty,” said Frances, decidedly. “Missy will fetch her.”

  “Yes, she’s big now, her mother won’t cry,” he said, as if not quite satisfied that she would not.

  It had come on to rain, since the morning but what cared Frances for that; she scarcely stayed to snatch her hat and cloak before she was hurrying through it. What cared she for the rain or anything else? Her whole soul was with Bertie — the child who through her means was dying, and yet had clasped her neck so lovingly as she bent over him dismayed and appalled at the ravages illness had made in his sweet face.

  There was only Matthew in the little parlour as she entered the cottage.

  “You’d better not come in, Miss,” he said “no offence, Miss, but my sister-in-law’s been ill with the fever these days past.”

  “It can make no difference now,” she said, bitterly, “that little boy I brought here only ten days ago is — is dying of the fever he caught here.”

  “Lord save us! Miss, dying?” said Matthew regretfully.

  “He has just asked for the kitten he saw here. Will you let him have it? It may be,” she said despairingly, seeing he hesitated, “only — only for a day, or for — a few hours, you would never have the heart to refuse a child’s last wish.” In days gone by she would have abused him for the hand he had had in causing poor Bertie’s illness, and her misery. But it was different now.

  “No, Miss, you’re right, I haven’t the heart to. What’s the kitten’s life worth next to the young master’s. Here take it and welcome; though what the Missus’ll say when she finds it’s gone, and the old un a howling about the place I don’t know, but there, it can’t be helped,” said Matthew philosophically, as Frances wrapped the kitten up carefully in her cloak, and hurried away.

  The evening had closed in by the time Frances reached the Park again. She hastily changed her wet things, and went at once to Bertie’s room, but her heart misgave her, as, going down the long corridor, she saw Anne seated on the ledge of the large window, with the traces of tears on her face.

  “I am not too late?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Anne. “He is very, very weak. I could not bear to stay.”

  Frances went on, Robert, as well as Amy, was in the room. He moved a little on one side to allow Frances to come near. “Bertie, my boy,” he said, “Missy has brought you Kitty.”

  Frances leant over, and placed it beside him.

  He opened his eyes feebly, the
n took the kitten so full of life, and nestled it to his side.

  “Bertie is very sick,” he said, weakly, as he tried to murmur his thanks.

  This was the first time he had spoken of feeling ill. How pitifully his little childish words smote upon the hearts of his sad, sorrowing parents.

  “Bertie is very sick,” he said again. “I think Bertie is going to die. Poor Bertie!”

  His mother’s tears fell like rain. “God will take care of my boy for me,” she said. “My boy, my precious Bertie!”

  “Yes; but you mustn’t cry, you and Papa, and Hannah.”

  Robert’s face was wet with tears, while old Hannah sat away in a corner, with her face covered up in her apron, sobbing audibly; but she stifled her sobs upon this, his — might be — last request.

  “God bless you, Bertie,” said Frances, in a broken voice, ere she went away.

  “Good night,” he said. “You may have my top, for bringing me Kitty. Papa will get it for you.”

  And then he turned his head away wearily, and begged his mother to hush him in her arms to sleep. Robert lifted him gently, and laid him close to Amy. She drew him near, nearer still to her poor breaking heart, but she dared not press her lips to his, lest she should draw away the feeble breath, already coming so faintly, growing fainter and fainter every moment.

  “Kitty must go back to her mother,” he said. “Take care of Kitty — pretty Kitty.”

  But soon he grew too weak to heed even Kitty, and could only murmur short broken sentences about Papa, Mamma, and sometimes Missy.

  Presently he roused again. “Don’t cry, Papa, Mamma — Kiss Bertie — Bertie’s very sick. Tell Hannah to bring a light — Bertie wants to see you.”

  Alas! his eyes had grown dim. He could no longer distinguish those he loved best, those who could scarcely answer his cry for their tears. They brought a light, old faithful Hannah did.

  “Can you see me, my own darling?” asked Amy.

  “No — no,” he murmured, and his eyes closed gently, his breathing became more gentle still; once more he said, lovingly, “Dear Papa, — Dear Mamma,” and then — he slept.

  “Don’t disturb him, Robert,” sobbed Amy to her husband, who was kneeling near.

  But Bertie had gone to a sleep from which there was no awaking.

  Bertie, little loving Bertie, was dead.

  “Softly thou’st sunk to sleep, From trials rude and sore; Now the good Shepherd, with His sheep Shall guard thee evermore.”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  JANE’S STORY.

  “An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye. ’Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago. She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know; With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ear receives their wailing, ‘Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — Alas! alas for Celin!’” Lockhart’s Spanish Ballads.

  The news of the sad death at the park spread like wildfire through the quiet, little village, and soon reached the turnpike gate, where Jane was fast recovering from the fever that had proved so fatal to poor Bertie. She, like Frances, moaned and wept when she heard of it; like her, her heart cowered and shrank within her; and for three days she could scarcely be persuaded to eat or drink, or say a word to anyone. Day after day she lay in her bed with her face steadily turned away from her sister, who as usual, tried to worry her into a more reasonable frame of mind, but finding it useless, left her to herself, and called her sullen; but it was not so, Jane’s heart had been touched and softened ever since the unfortunate day of Bertie’s visit; he had done more towards bringing repentance to that guilty heart than years of suffering had been able to accomplish; for Jane had suffered, suffered from the weight of a secret, that at times well-nigh made her as crazy as Marks imagined her to be. It was this terrible secret that had made her so silent and strange, this that had driven her neighbours to look upon her as half-witted. But she wanted no one’s pity, no one’s consolation, had steeled and hardened her heart against it, and let her life pass on and wither in its lone coldness. As she had lived, so she might have died, smothering all remorse, driving back each repentant feeling as it swept past her; might have died — but for Bertie’s visit. Since then, the firm will to resist the good had been shaken; she was not only weak from the effects of the fever, but inwardly weak; weak at heart, weak in spirit. She battled with the repentant feelings so foreign to her, fought against what she had been a stranger too for so long, but it was all in vain; she resisted with a will, but it was a feeble will, and in the end the good triumphed, and Jane was won.

  One morning, the fourth since Bertie died, Mrs. Marks took up Jane’s breakfast as usual, and placed it on a chair by the bed-side.

  “Here’s a nice fresh egg,” said she, “what you don’t often see, this time of the year, I wish it might strengthen your lips, as well as your stomach. I’m sick of seeing you lie there with never a word. I’d rather a deal have a bad one, than none at all,” and she drew back the curtains, and stirred up the freshly-lit fire.

  “I’m ready and willing to speak,” replied Jane, “though God forgive me, it’s bad enough, as you say, what I have to tell.”

  Mrs. Marks was startled, not only at Jane’s addressing her after so long a silence, but at the changed voice, so different to the usual reserved, measured tone, and short answers given in monosyllables. But she took no notice, and merely said, —

  “What’s the matter? Ain’t the breakfast to your liking?”

  “It’s better than I deserve,” was the reply.

  Mrs. Marks was more amazed than before. “You don’t feel so well this morning, Jane,” said she, kindly, “the weakness is bad on you, like it was on me; but, please God, you’ll get round fast enough, never fear. Here!” and she placed the tray on the bed, “take a sup of the tea, and I’ll put a dash of brandy in it; that’ll rouse you up a bit, I’ll be bound.”

  Jane made no resistance, but as Mrs. Marks put down the cup, she placed her hand on hers, and said, “You won’t think me crazy, Anne, if I ask you to send and beg young Master Robert to come and see me?”

  “Don’t you know he’s been dead these four days past? There — there, lie still, and don’t be a worriting yourself this way; your head ain’t strong yet.”

  “It’s stronger and better than it’s been many a long day. Anne, I must see Master Robert, not the dead child, but the young Squire. I’ve that to tell him that’ll make his heart ache, as it has mine, only there’s sin on mine — sin on mine,” said she, sitting up in bed, and rocking herself about.

  “Then don’t tell it. What’s the use of making heart aches?”

  “I can’t bear the weight of it any longer. I must tell. Ever since I saw that child I’ve been striving against it; but it’s no good — no good. I can’t keep the secret any longer, Anne. I dare not. If I do it’ll drive me clean out of my mind.”

  “Just you answer me one question, Jane. Is it right to tell it? Can any good come of it?”

  “Yes, so help me God. It can! It will!”

  “Then,” replied Mrs. Marks, “I’ll send Matthew at once; mother and I always thought there was something had driven you to be so strange when you left your place up at the Park fifteen years ago.”

  Jane laid herself down and covered up her face, while with a troubled sigh Mrs. Marks went below to seek her husband.

  Matthew was surprised and confounded when bidden go up to the Hall and fetch the Squire.

  “What!” he said, “are yer gone clean crazy as well as Jane! It’s likely I’ll go and fetch the Squire at the bidding of a ‘dafty.’ How do I know, but what it’s a fool’s errand he’ll come on?”

  But reason as he would, his words had no weight with Mrs. Marks, and Matthew had to go in the end, though with a more misgiving heart and rueful countenance than when he had gone to the young doctor’s.

  There was little occasion for misgivings on Matthew’s
part, Mr. Linchmore received him kindly, and promised to call at the turnpike during the day.

  What setting to rights of the cottage there was when Marks returned with the news! It was always tidy and clean, but now for the especial honour of the Squire’s visit all its corners were ransacked and everything turned topsy-turvy. Mrs. Marks was still unable to help much in the work, but she dusted and tidied the cups and saucers, and knick-knacks, although they had not seen a speck of dust for days, and certainly not since she had been downstairs again; Sarah’s arms ached with the scrubbing and scouring she was made to do in a certain given time, while her mistress stood by, scolding and finding fault by turns. Nothing was done well, or as it ought to be done; but then, as the girl said, Mrs. Marks was so finicking, there was no pleasing her, she should be glad enough when she was able to do the work for herself, and she could go home to her mother.

  When Mr. Linchmore came, he scarcely rested in the newly swept parlour at all, but desired at once to be shown to the sick woman’s room. With many apologies from Mrs. Marks at her sister’s inability to rise and see him, she preceded him up stairs.

  Jane was sitting propped up in bed with pillows, her pale face looking paler and more emaciated than usual. Mr. Linchmore’s heart was touched with pity as he noted the care-worn, prematurely old face, with its deep lines telling of sorrow or sin. Sin! Surely if this woman’s life had been sinful, what had he, with his strict principles of right, to do with such as her? What had she — as Marks assured him — to tell, that nearly concerned himself? His heart reverted to his mother. Was it of her she would speak? of her whose ungovernable temper had driven his father to seek with his children that happiness abroad that had been denied him at home? But then his mother had been mad, at least he had been taught to think that the one excuse for her strange conduct. How severe and tyrannical she had been, not only to his brother and himself, but to that sweet, uncomplaining sister, whose life had been, he truly believed, shortened through her violence, and yet again, when the passion was over, how fiercely loving, how vehemently passionate in her cravings for her children’s love, which she alienated from her more and more each day. No; others might love and reverence the name of mother, but Mr. Linchmore’s heart was stirred with no such feelings; only a vague sense of fear, a nameless dread of evil came across him as he fancied it might be of her Jane had to speak.