Works of Ellen Wood

by Ellen Wood

  He drew near, and bent down kindly. “I fear you have been very ill,” he said, “with the same fever that has wrought such desolation in my home.”

  “Yes, sir, I have been ill — am ill; but now it’s more from remorse; from the guilt of a wicked, cruel heart, than this same fever you speak of.”

  There was a pause. Jane spoke with difficulty, her breath came quick and short, as though her heart laboured heavily under the load of sin she spoke of.

  “Turn more to the light,” she said, “so that I may see your face. So — that is well. Still like your mother, strangely like, with none of her hard passions or cruel hate. Your love might be fierce, burning, and strong, but unlike her you would sacrifice your own happiness to secure the well being of the one you love. Had she done so, what misery to her, what misery to me might have been spared?”

  “Did you know my mother?” asked Mr. Linchmore.

  “Tell him, Anne,” said Jane, as Mrs. Marks held some wine and water to her pale lips, that seemed too feeble to utter another word.

  “If you please, sir,” said Mrs. Marks, dropping her deepest curtsey, “this is Tabitha, my sister ‘Tabitha Jane,’ who was brought up so kindly by your lady mother; but there, I don’t wonder you don’t remember her. I had a hard matter to myself, when I went over to Dean to fetch her, come four years ago this next Christmas.”

  “Tabitha! This Tabitha! The pale, meek girl, who bore so uncomplainingly what we boys resented. Can this be Tabitha?”

  “Yes,” replied Jane. “It can. It is. The weight of a guilty secret has ploughed my face with these deep furrows. Call me not meek; I was anything but that, I was a sinful, wicked woman. Oh! I have much to tell: much that has been locked up in my heart for more than thirty years. How I have suffered under the burden that at last has grown too heavy for me to bear, and I sink under its load, must divulge it; must have her forgiveness, ere I die!”

  “Your words fill me with a foreboding of evil,” replied Mr. Linchmore. “Think well before you speak, Tabitha. Is it necessary that this secret, sinful as you say it is, should be divulged. Does it concern, does it benefit those living?”

  “If it did not, I would never speak it, but struggle on with its sorrow, till I died. No hard, and cruel as my mistress was, not from Tabitha should come the tale that will denounce her and her evil ways.”

  “She was my mother, Tabitha,” said Mr. Linchmore, as if reproaching her harshness.

  “True, she was. I do not forget it; still I must speak, must tell of her sin and mine, for it is sin, fearful sin. I would, for your sake, Master Robert, that it were otherwise; but when I tell of my wrong-doing, with mine must come hers. It must. Justice must be done. The mother’s craving, broken heart must be healed.”

  “God forbid that I should be the one to stand in the way. Speak, Tabitha! but be as merciful as you can; remember you speak of one whose memory ought to be dear to me. I will steel my heart to hear — and bear.”

  “Do so,” she said. “It is a long story. I must go back to the days when I was a child, and your mother, Miss Julia, took me away from my home to hers. She was of an imperious will and proud nature; her mother had died at giving her birth, and her father had never controlled her in any way. She was as wild and wayward as the trees that grew in the forest near here, when they were shaken by the wind. With her, to ask was to have, and when she brought me home and declared her intention of bringing me up, and making a companion and plaything of me, no objection was raised, and she petted and scolded me by turns, as it suited her haughty will. At first I disliked her, then feared, and at length loved, worshipped her, as some beautiful spirit. Her father died; but then it was too late to save his child, or let others teach her wild spirit lessons of meekness and obedience; then your grandmother came and took us both away to live in her own home. She was a widow, with two sons, the eldest not quite so old as Miss Julia.

  “A change came over your mother. She loved. Loved the eldest of the two, your father; loved as only she could love, with all the wild, impetuous passion of her nature. It would have been strange had he not loved her in return — so beautiful, so wayward, so bright a being as she was then. They were engaged to be married, and, I believe, had they married then all would have gone well, and perhaps the evil that followed been averted. But they did not marry, they tarried — tarried until another girl, a niece, was left desolate, and she too came to Brampton.”

  Jane, or Tabitha, paused for a moment, then went on more slowly,

  “She was, I believe, an angel of goodness, as pure as she was fair, and as meek and gentle as your mother was ungovernable. From this time nothing went right. Your father and my mistress had words together oftener than formerly; but while she wept and lamented in secret, he would seek Miss Mary, and pour out his wounded heart to her. By degrees Miss Julia grew to learn it, and became jealous. Then, with the fierceness of her nature, she would storm and rave if she but saw Master Robert speaking to her; and yet, when the angry fit was over, be as humbly loving, as passionately sorry.

  “Things could not go on like this for ever. I believe her temper was fairly wearing out your father’s love, and that he would gladly have turned over to Miss Mary if he could; but I, who was set as a watch and a spy over the poor young thing — she was eighteen years younger than your mother — saw that her heart was another’s, even young Mr. Archer’s, who was part tutor, part companion to your father’s younger brother. How I hated her then — for I had dared to love him myself — and determined on her ruin! How I hid the secret that would have made Miss Julia so happy in the deepest recesses of my heart, and urged my mistress on to believe that Miss Mary loved Master Robert!”

  Again Jane paused, then continued as she turned her face away from Mr. Linchmore, who was listening intently to her,

  “One morning, I remember it well, — I had quietly wrought Miss Julia up to such a pitch of frenzy, that I believe she would have stopped at nothing to accomplish the removal of her hated rival, — the door was suddenly flung open by your father; his face was pale, and he was evidently labouring under strong excitement. ‘Julia,’ he said, ‘do you still wish to be my wife?’

  “There was no need of a reply, could he not see the sudden light in her eyes, the quick bright flash that spread like wildfire over her face.

  “That day week they were married, and went away from Brampton for a time.

  “I remained behind with my enemy, watching and waiting; but I could do her no harm. Your grandmother loved her as the apple of her eye. I could see Miss Julia — now Mrs. Robert Linchmore, — was as nothing to her. Then I tried to cause a quarrel between her and young Mr. Archer; in vain; they loved too well, my arts were useless, my plans and wishes powerless.

  “Your parents returned. A year passed away, and then you were born; but I could see your father was not happy. He still loved Miss Mary, strive as he would against it, while your mother treated her like a dog.

  “Another year, and your sister was born; but things went worse. Your mother was no sooner up and about again than your uncle’s health failed terribly, and he and Mr. Archer went abroad.

  “Six months passed, during which your mother grew more insanely jealous of Miss Mary, and more tyrannical. She bore it all uncomplainingly; but I saw that she worried and fretted in secret, and grew thinner and thinner every day.

  “One morning I went hastily into her room, and found her working a baby’s cap, which she hurriedly thrust on one side as I entered; but my suspicions were aroused at her evident confusion, and glancing at her, her sin — if sin it was, became evident to my eyes, and I flew, rather than walked to my mistress’s room. The scene that followed between her and Miss Mary I will not describe; but through it all — although she did not deny the imputation we cast on her, — she vowed she was innocent, and Mr. Archer’s lawful wife. I believed her then. I know she told the truth now.

  “That night she fled from the Park, while your father left soon after to join his brother, declaring he
would never live with his wife again until she had done Miss Mary justice. Your grandmother never recovered the shock of all these terrible doings, she took Miss Mary’s sin to heart. I don’t think she believed it: but she sorrowed, and refused to be comforted, and soon after died. Then news reached us of Mr. Archer’s death.”

  Jane stopped again, and lay back feebly against the pillows.

  “With the news of his death came a letter, addressed, in his handwriting, to Miss Mary. I recognised the writing, and kept the letter, mad as it made me to read those loving words of his written to another. She never had the letter, or her marriage lines, which were with it.”

  “Wretched woman!” said Mr. Linchmore, sternly. “Had you no heart — no mercy?”

  “No, none. And now I must hasten to close, for I am weak and faint. I told no one of the letter, but tracked, by my mistress’s order, Miss Mary. I found her at last. She had heard of her husband’s death, for she wore widow’s mourning, and looked heart-broken. She was poor, too, with only the small annuity old Mrs. Linchmore had been able to leave her; for her husband, Mr. Archer, had not, I believe, a farthing to give her at his death; but what cared I for that. I took away the one tie that bound her to this earth — I took her child.”

  “That was not my mother’s sin,” said Mr. Linchmore, interrupting her. “Thank God for that!”

  “Stop! Don’t interrupt me! I did it, because she bade me do it. I don’t think then I should have done it else, because he was dead, and my heart did not feel so hard as it had done, and I should have told my mistress how I had belied Miss Mary to her, had I dared summon the courage to do so; but I dreaded to think of her anger at being deceived. Well, enough, I took the child. He was a lovely, sweet infant, gentle and fair like his mother had been, and I could not find it in my heart to do the evil with him my mistress wished; for her heart could not but feel savage at the thought of his being her husband’s child. So I kept him hid away till long after I had stolen him; then I carried him to Mr. Vavasour, a kind, mild looking, middle-aged gentleman, who had often visited the Park at one time; but now, ever since Mrs. Robert had been left in possession, never came.

  “Mr. Vavasour refused to take the child at first, but I pleaded so hard; I told him what the boy’s fate would be if he turned a deaf ear to my entreaties; that the mother hated him as a love child, and that the knowledge of his birth would bring sin and shame upon her, and much more beside, and in the end he consented to adopt him, — and did. Four years after this, your father returned home, and things went on more smoothly; your brother Charles was born, and my mistress seemed at last happy, and her restless spirit satisfied; but her temper, at times, was as bad as ever, and I don’t believe, at heart, she was happy with the weight of the sin she thought she had been guilty of, on her conscience. How Miss Mary came to guess we had aught to do with her boy, I know not. But about a year after your brother’s birth she came and taxed us with the theft. How altered she was! Grief and the mother’s sorrow had done their work surely, and I scarcely dared look on the wreck I had helped to make.

  “She told us that the loss of her child had driven her mad, and that for months she had been watched and looked after. She conjured us — implored — all in vain; my mistress denied our guilt, and defied her; but your father believed the poor, sorrowing, frantic creature, and never spoke to his wife after, but left her, taking his children with him.

  “He never saw your mother again.

  “My mistress bore up bravely after he was gone. None guessed of her desolated heart, or that it still loved so passionately. During the five years that followed, I scarce know how she lived; I could see her heart was fast breaking, and that all her hope in life was gone. She grew more tyrannical than ever; there was not one of the few servants we had but did not fear her and think her mad. She would go down the small staircase that led from her room out into the park, and roam for hours at night. As she grew weaker and weaker, and I felt she would die, my heart relented more and more. I could not bear to witness her misery. Then I owned the boy was alive, and begged and implored her to let us find him and restore him to his mother; I dared not say I knew where he was, or that he was not her husband’s child; but she resisted my entreaties with violence, and made me swear I never would tell what we had done. She grew worse and worse; but struggled on, defying every thing and everyone. I had a hard matter to get her to see the young doctor even.

  “One night she was so weak she would lay on a mattress on the floor, not having the strength to get into bed; as I sat by her side and watched, she fell into a deep sleep. Soon after, I heard steps coming up the secret stairs; I needed no one to tell who that was — my heart whispered it was Miss Mary long before she stood before me. She never said a word, but sat away on the other side of my mistress. My heart shuddered as I looked at her; she was more altered than ever; her hair was quite grey, such lovely fair hair as it had been! — the softness of her face was gone; the sweet gentle look had gone too, and a painful frown contracted her forehead. While I gazed, I forgot Miss Mary, and could think of nothing but the angry, bereaved, half-crazed Mrs. Archer. I knew then, that those who had injured her had no mercy to expect at her hands, and I felt afraid of her, and yet I dared not bid her go, but wished my mistress would tell her the truth when she awoke from that death-like slumber. I prayed she might, — for what harm could that angry mother do to a dying woman? But my prayer was not answered. I forgot, when I breathed it, my own sinfulness, — forgot, even, that if vengeance came at all, it would fall on me; and, if I had thought of it, I would not have stayed the truth from being told then. I swear I would not. I was too miserable. God knows, I would have told, myself, but for the sake of my oath, and that angry look on Mrs. Archer’s face; it tied my tongue.

  “When my mistress roused, I shall never forget her anger at seeing Mrs. Archer. She heaped a storm of abuse on her head, while Mrs. Archer prayed and wept by turns; promising even to bless those who had robbed her, if they would only give her back her lost treasure. ‘Give me back my boy!’ was the ever repeated, fervent, agonized cry of her heart.”

  “She did not, could not plead in vain,” cried Mr. Linchmore. “No, no, my mother was not so bad as that!”

  “Nerve your heart to bear the rest, it is soon told. Tears streamed from her eyes in vain. She pleaded in vain. My mistress was obdurate. ‘I die,’ she said, ‘but I die with the knowledge that you, who have been the one stumbling-block of my life, and have made it miserable, and a curse to me, are even more wretched than myself, for I will never speak the word that will make you happy. The secret shall die with me.’ When Mrs. Archer saw that all her pleading was vain, she grew frantic, and scarce knew what she said in her madness. My mistress grew even more angry than she. I strove to quiet her, to stay the torrent of words, but her whole frame shook with angry passion as she sat up unaided on the bed. I saw it was too much for her, tried to avert it, but, before she could utter a word, she fell back again. ‘God have mercy upon me!’ she cried, and with that one prayer on her lips she died. I know no more, I fell insensible, as Mrs. Archer, seeing her last hope gone, gave one terrible fearful cry of despair.”

  Jane paused. “I have no more to tell,” she said feebly, “I thank God I have told it; I never would, but for the sake of the curl. I daren’t let it lie in my bosom else.”

  It was many minutes before Mr. Linchmore could speak, and then his voice quavered and shook, and his hands trembled as he drew them from his face, and asked, “Where is the mother — the child?”

  “Mr. Vavasour, up at the Park now, is the child. Mrs. Archer, the mother, lives down in the wood, yonder. I have never seen her but once since I came here; I have fled the sight of her. You know her as Mrs. Grey. You will see her, tell her what I say; she will believe it fast enough.”

  “Your sin has been fearful; God knows it has,” said Mr. Linchmore, trying to speak composedly.

  “I have been a sinful woman; humbly I acknowledge it, but if my sin has been great, wha
t has been its punishment? Look in my face, you will read the traces of suffering there; but my heart, you cannot read that; and that has suffered tenfold.”

  “What proof have you of all you say?”

  “Mrs. Archer will need none,” she said, “if you tell her Tabitha swears it’s the truth. But here’s the letter with her marriage lines,” she added, taking one from under her pillow, “many’s the time I’ve been tempted to destroy it, but somehow daren’t do it; and here’s another old Mr. Vavasour gave me to keep, stating when and how we had received the child; in it you’ll find the beads he wore round his neck when I stole him.”

  “Are these all the proofs you can give?”

  “No. I’ve a stronger one than this. The child had a dark mark on his arm, it could not have escaped his mother’s eye; it can’t have worn away, it must be there now, and that’ll tell who he is plainer and better than any words of mine. “Are you going?” she asked, as Mr. Linchmore rose.

  “Yes, the sooner I tell the dreadful tale the better, if my heart does not break the while. Have you anything else to say? Would you wish to see Mrs. Archer?”

  “Oh! no! no!” she said, “don’t send her; I know I’ve no mercy to expect at her hands, I showed her none. She’ll hate and curse me, may be.”

  “You have little mercy to expect from one you have so deeply injured,” replied Mr. Linchmore, “but I will see you again, or send another to speak with you. My thoughts are in a whirl, and I cannot — I feel incapable of talking to you today.”

  “And must I be satisfied with this?” said Jane, “well, I submit; I have not deserved a kind word from you. Still I loved your mother.”

  “She would have been better for your hate,” he replied, moodily, “but in case I should not come again, I leave you my forgiveness for the evil you have helped to work, though it goes hard against my heart to give it; but you have a higher mercy to ask for than mine. I trust you have implored that already — humbly and sincerely.”