by Ellen Wood
“God knows I have,” replied Jane, feebly.
Mr. Linchmore went slowly from the cottage, scarcely heeding Mrs. Marks’ curtseys and parting words, and struck across the fields towards the wood.
It was a sinful, grievous tale, the one he had just heard, and a bitter trial to him, not only to listen to it, but to know that from his lips must come the words to denounce his mother, — proclaim her guilt. It went bitterly against him, although he had no loving reverence for his parent; still, it must be done, his misery must make another’s happiness, must restore the son to his mother. He hesitated not, but walked firmly on, perhaps angrily.
At the corner of the wood he met Marks, but his heart was too full for words with any one, and he merely acknowledged the passing touch of his hat, as he turned off into one of the by-paths, a nearer cut to Mrs. Grey’s cottage. Just as he was about to emerge again into the broad beaten path, scarcely a dozen yards from the cottage, he stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. A slight rustle in the bushes near attracted his attention. He looked up, and saw a man, gun in hand, creeping cautiously out of the underwood.
At another time Mr. Linchmore would have confronted him at once, but now he allowed him to pass on unmolested. The man crossed the path, reached the opposite side, and was about plunging again into the bushes, when Robert Vavasour’s hand arrested his footsteps.
“What do you here with that gun, my man?” he asked.
It was growing dusk, almost twilight in the wood; still, as the man suddenly turned his face full on Vavasour, the latter exclaimed,
“Ah! it is you, is it? You villain! you don’t escape me this time.”
A short quick scuffle, a bright flash, a loud report, and Robert Vavasour dropped to the ground.
With a great oath, the man sprang up, but ere he could stir one step, Mr. Linchmore’s hand was upon him. A desperate struggle ensued; but a stronger arm, a more powerful frame, contended with him now, and in a few moments he lay prostrate, but still struggling, on the ground.
“Could you be content with nothing less than murder?” asked a voice, sternly.
Mr. Linchmore shuddered as he recognised “Goody Grey.”
“For God’s sake, Mrs. Grey, go and seek help for the wounded man yonder.”
“Why should I?” she exclaimed, fiercely. “I will never stir a finger for you or yours. I have sworn it.”
“It is your son, your long-lost son! Tabitha bid me tell you so.”
Goody Grey, — or rather Mrs. Archer’s, — whole frame trembled violently; she quivered and shook, and leant heavily on her staff, as though she would have fallen.
“Fly!” he continued. “For God’s sake, fly! Rouse yourself, Mrs. Archer, and aid your son.”
“My son!” she repeated, softly and tenderly, but as if doubting his words.
Again Mr. Linchmore implored her, again she heard those words “It is your son!” which seemed to burn her brain. But the power of replying, of moving, seemed taken from her.
A minute passed, and then the weakness passed away. Her eyes flashed, her face flushed, then blanched again, while with a mighty effort she drew up her tall figure to its utmost height, and proudly, but hurriedly, went over to where Robert lay.
She staunched the blood flowing from the wound, and tenderly knelt by his side and lifted his head gently on her bosom.
There was a slight break in the branches of the trees overhead, so that what little light there was, streamed through the gap full down on the spot where Mrs. Archer knelt.
She raised his coat sleeve, and baring his arm, bent down her head over it.
A moment after a wild cry rent the air, and rang through the wood.
“Oh! help! help!” she cried; “Oh! my son! my son!”
There was no need to cry for help; the sound of the gun had been heard, and the keepers came crowding to the spot, and with them, Marks.
A litter was soon constructed for the wounded man, and once more he was mournfully and sorrowfully borne away towards the Hall.
Marks drew near the captured poacher, now standing sullenly and silently near.
“Ah!” said Marks, as he was being led away, “I thought no good had brought farmer Hodge down here, four years ago. You’ll may be swing for this, my lad; and break your father’s heart, as you did your mother’s, not so long ago.”
With which consolatory remark, Marks went back to his cottage.
CHAPTER XIV.
DESPAIR!
“Ah! what have eyes to do with sleep, That seek, and vainly seek to weep? No dew on the dark lash appears, — The heart is all too full for tears.” L. E. L.
“The world’s a room of sickness, where each heart, Knows its own anguish and unrest, The truest wisdom there, and noblest art, Is his, who skills of comfort best, Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone, Enfeebled spirits own, And love to raise the languid eye, Where, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting by.” Christian Year.
Anne sat in the solitude of her own thoughts; not alone, for her husband was at a table near, busy with his morrow’s sermon; but Anne, for once, did not mind the silence, she had many things to think of, many things that made her sad. First, the little dead child lying now so cold and still; then his poor, sorrowing, heart-broken mother, whom she had tried, but ineffectually, to comfort; and then the father, who ought to be the one earthly stay on which the wife’s heart might lean, and whose love should wean away the sad remembrance, or soften the blow. But Anne had found out that a great gulf lay between husband and wife, though what had separated them baffled her utmost skill to discover.
Robert must love his wife passionately, else why had he lifted her so tenderly in his arms, as she lay insensible when the truth of her great loss broke upon her; why had he carried her away, and as he laid her on her own bed, bent so lovingly over her, murmuring, as he chafed her hands, “My poor, stricken darling. My own lost love;” and yet, when consciousness returned, how self possessed! how altered! kind and considerate as before, but the loving words, the loving looks were wanting. And Amy, who had seemed so happy only a month ago, surely more than grief for her boy had fixed that stony look on her face, and caused those tearless, woeful eyes.
Anne’s thoughts grew quite painful at last; the eternal scratch of her husband’s pen irritated her.
“Do put down your pen for a minute, Tom. I feel so miserable.”
“In half a moment,” he said. “There — now I am ready to listen. What was it you said?”
“That I was miserable.”
“I do not wonder at it, there has been enough to make us all feel sorrowful.”
“Yes, but it is more than the poor child’s death makes me feel so.”
“What else?” he asked.
“Why Amy herself, and then her husband.”
“Let us pick the wife to pieces first, Anne.”
“Oh! Tom, it is no scandal at all, but the plain truth. I wish it were otherwise,” she said with a sigh.
“Well, begin at the beginning, and let me judge.”
“You put it all out of my head. There is no beginning,” she said crossly.
“Then the end,” he replied.
“There is neither beginning nor end: you make me feel quite vexed, Tom.”
“Neither beginning nor end? Then there can be nothing to tell.”
“No, nothing. You had better go on with your sermon and make an end of that.”
“I have made an end of it,” he said, laughing, “and now, joking aside, Anne, what have you to say about Mrs. Vavasour?”
“If you are serious, Tom, I will tell you, but not else,” she replied.
“I am serious, Anne; quite serious.”
“Then tell me what is to be done with that poor bereaved Amy, — who has not shed a single tear since her child’s death, four days ago now; — or her husband, who I verily believe worships her, and yet is as cold as a stone, and from no want of love on her part either, for I can see plainly by the way she follows h
im with her eyes sometimes, that she is as fond of him as — as—”
“You are of me,” he said.
“Nonsense, Tom. They were so happy last time we came over to see them, that I cannot understand what has caused the change. Can you make any guess at all so as to help me? for oh! Tom, I would give the world to know.”
“Curiosity again, Anne?”
“No, not so,” she replied, “or if it is, it is in the right place this time; as I want to help them to make up the difference, whatever it is but do not see how I can manage it, when I am so totally in the dark. One thing I am certain of, Amy will die unless I can bring her to shed some tears, so as to remove that stony look.”
“She has one hope, one consolation. Surely I need not remind my wife to lead her heart and thoughts gradually and gently to that.”
“I have tried it, tried everything; but, Tom, there is no occasion whatever for preaching.
“Anne! Anne!”
“Yes, I know it’s wrong to say so, but it is the truth notwithstanding; I feel something else should be tried. She is too submissive under the blow, too patient; not a murmur has escaped her lips, if there had, I should stand a better chance of seeing tears; but as it is there is no need of consolation. I verily believe she wants to die. And then that Frances, I sometimes think she has had something to do with it all; you know I always disliked that girl, and never thought she had a spark of feeling in her, until I saw her coming away from poor Bertie’s room that sad evening, and a more woe-begone, remorseful face I never wish to see; and then see how distracted she has been since. Isabella tells me it is dreadful to be with her.”
“Poor girl, I pity her with all my heart, she feels she has been mainly instrumental in bringing all this misery upon Mrs. Vavasour.”
“I am sure,” said Anne, more to herself than her husband, “she has a great deal more than Bertie’s death to answer for; she nearly broke his mother’s and Charley’s heart four years ago, and I half believe she has had something to do with the husband’s now.”
“Be more charitable, Anne, and do not lay so many sins to her charge. That last is a very grievous one.”
“Well,” said his wife, rising, “after all my talk, Tom, you have not helped me one bit, I do believe I am going away more miserable than ever to that poor Amy.”
“Things do look dark indeed, Anne,” said he as he kissed her, “but we must hope in God’s mercy all will be better soon; may He help you in your work of love with the poor heart-sorrowing mother.”
As Anne went out she met Frances Strickland’s maid, “If you please Ma’am, where shall I find Mr. Hall, my young mistress wishes to see him.”
“I will tell him myself,” said Anne, and back she went.
“Tom! Frances Strickland wishes to see you.”
“To see me!” he exclaimed. “I have promised to walk as far as the turnpike with Linchmore. That woman from whom the child caught the fever sent to beg he would call on her some time this morning; he named two o’clock, and it is close upon that now. Will not Miss Strickland be satisfied with you as my substitute?”
“I never thought of asking, and, indeed, I should not like to. She might think I was jealous.” Mr. Hall laughed outright.
“You are in such a dreadfully teasing mood this morning, Tom; I have no patience with you! Perhaps Frances is going to clear up all this mystery? I told you a moment ago I suspected she had had something to do with it, and now her remorse may be greater than she can bear; repentance may have come with her grief for poor Bertie. I only hope, if it is so, that she is not too late to make amends.”
“Then I must make my excuses to Linchmore, and give up my walk,” he said, with a sigh; “and go and hear what she has to say?”
“Yes, do, Tom, that will be so good of you. I will wait here, but do not be long, as this is your last day with me, you know.”
As soon as Mr. Hall had gone, Anne half regretted that she had not done as he suggested, and seen Frances instead. Suppose she should try and sow dissension in his heart? Anne’s face flushed hotly at the bare idea, then again she consoled herself with the thought that he would be sure to come and tell her if she did, for the sake of the love he bore for her; still Anne passed a fidgety, uncomfortable half hour ere he returned.
Mr. Hall’s face was grave; graver than Anne ever remembered to have seen it, and she waited for him to speak first, and checked the impatient question already on her lips.
“It is worse than I thought, Anne, much worse. Your judgment did not lead you astray. She has separated husband and wife.”
“Then she has told you all, Tom. Oh! how glad I am, not only for Amy’s sake but for her own; it would have been so dreadful for her to have lived on upholding the falsehoods she must have told to work her ends.”
“That is the worst part of the business, Anne, she has unfortunately told the truth, and, as far as I can see, the chance of reconciling those who ought to be heart and soul to each other is remote indeed. Time and the wife’s love — you say she does love him — may, by God’s grace, do much. I see nothing that you or I can do.”
“Wretched girl! What has she told?”
“What Vavasour ought only to have heard from his wife’s lips. Of her previous love for another and of their unfortunate meeting the day of her marriage.”
“I always hoped she had told him,” said Anne, clasping her hands despairingly. “The concealment was no sin on Amy’s part, only weakness. But as for Frances, there can be no excuse for her. She has been cruelly, shamefully unkind, and revengeful!”
“She has; there is no denying it, but all through your friend’s own fault; she nursed in her heart — which should have been as clear as day to her husband — a secret; and that one sin has brought in the end its own punishment, and while we blame Frances’ culpable revenge, we must blame the wife’s breach of faith and disloyalty.”
“Oh, Tom, what hard words!” cried Anne, “poor Amy’s has not been a guilty secret.”
“No, but appearances are sadly against her, and we know nothing of what the husband thinks; even if he does believe her guiltless, he must naturally feel wounded at his wife’s want of love and trust.”
“Yes,” replied Anne, sadly, “what you say is very just and true. Can nothing then be done? Nothing at all?”
“Frances is ready to make what atonement she can for her fault; it may help us a little, but very little, I fear. She has promised to tell Vavasour that her own jealousy and grief at being supplanted in another’s love by his wife, determined her on being revenged; she cannot unsay what she has said, because it is the truth; but she who caused the breach may be allowed to plead for forgiveness for herself and the wife she has injured. The repentance is no secret, Anne; she desired me to tell you all, and beg you to plead for her with Mrs. Vavasour.”
“Do you think I shall plead in vain, or that she will with Mr. Vavasour?”
“I trust not,” he said, doubtfully; “the knowledge that his wife has not intentionally sinned, but only through fear of losing his love, and the conviction that she loves him may soften his heart.”
“May; but I see you think it will be a long time first, and in the meantime Amy will break her heart. Oh! Tom, I don’t believe he can be so cruel if he loves her; just now, too, when she is so heart broken, so sadly bereaved. Do make Frances tell Mr. Vavasour at once.”
“I intended to have done so,” he replied, “but Vavasour has gone out, so we must wait as patiently as we can until he returns. In the meantime, Anne, I will give you something to occupy your time and thoughts. I have promised Miss Strickland that you will ask Mrs. Vavasour’s forgiveness for her. She says it is hopeless; but that cannot be,” he said, as Anne thought, somewhat sternly; “you had better go at once and ask it; she who has sinned herself, and knows the repentant heart’s craving for forgiveness, what hope can she have of pardon if she withholds hers from one who has sinned against her even seventy times seven.”
Anne said not a word, but w
ith desponding heart prepared to go.
“I have only an hour to spare,” said Mr. Hall. “It is now three, and at four I must get ready to start home. I have ordered the pony-carriage at half-past.”
“I shall be with you long before that,” replied Anne, as she closed the door.
Amy sat just where Anne had left her only an hour ago; the same hopelessly despairing, fixed, death-like look on her face, which was as white as the shawl wrapped round her. As Anne looked, she wondered if Frances alone had wrought the sad change, while her heart sank within her at the apparently hopeless task her husband had imposed upon her, and she hesitated and faltered slightly ere she went at once, as was her wont, to the point in view. Her sister Julia would have brought the subject gradually round to Frances, but that was not Anne’s way; she was, in fact, too impetuous, rushing headlong into a difficulty, facing the danger, and braving it with that strong, true heart.
“My husband has been to see Frances Strickland to-day, Amy.”
There was no reply; Anne hardly expected any, but Amy raised her eyes, and looked hastily and inquiringly in her face. Anne took courage; perhaps the very fact of Amy’s knowing another held her secret might open the floodgates of her heart.
“She hid nothing from Tom; told him all, everything, and is desperately sorry, as well she may be, for all the misery she has caused you.”
“As well she may be,” repeated Amy.
“She is repentant — truly repentant, Amy.”
“I know it; have known it for days past,” was the cold reply.
“She begs your forgiveness most humbly.”
“I know that also, and have given it.”
“She says otherwise, Amy,” said Anne, rather puzzled.
“I have forgiven her for my darling’s loss. But for the other; if she has dared tell you of it — of her cruelty, I never will. I have said so. Let us talk of something else.”