A SISTER’S VOICE.
Lottie had not been alarmed by not hearing from her mother, well knowing
that, though Mrs. Stone was able to read, she had never penned a letter
in the course of her life. Lottie talked cheerfully and hopefully to
Steady on the evening following that on which the last meeting had been
held, as they sat together by the little window after the work of the day
was over.
“Now that Mr. Arthur has come back, it do seem as if everything were
a-brightening,” said she. “He’s getting over his sickness wonderful,
and I don’t believe as father’s was ever half so bad. Father will be
a-coming home too; and Mr. Arthur will speak a word for him—I’m sure that
he will—and get him work at the factory again, or maybe at the Castle.
Mother won’t need to work so hard, and we’ll have a nice little cottage
of our own, and not have to live in a lodging over a shop.”
Brightly glowed the reflection of the setting sun on the windows of the
opposite side of the street; and Lottie’s black eyes, as she gazed on it,
seemed to have caught the cheerful gleam. But even as she looked, the sun
sank below the western horizon, the ruddy light gradually faded away, and
the gray hue of twilight succeeded.
“There be mother!” suddenly exclaimed young Stone, rising quickly from
his seat, as with weary step a lonely woman turned the corner of the
street, bending as if under a heavy burden of years or sorrow, and never
once lifting her drooping eyes towards her home as she approached it.
“Mother—alone! Oh, where—where has she left father?” exclaimed Lottie,
starting up and running to meet her.
Deborah found the door open, and Lottie there with a look of eager
inquiry on her face. But no word was uttered; for the sight of her
mother’s countenance, and the scraps of shabby mourning which she wore,
took from the young, warm-hearted girl all power of speech. She followed
Deborah upstairs, thankful that Mrs. Green chanced to be at the moment
out of the way.
“How’s father?” asked the son, who had met his mother on the staircase.
Deborah made no reply, but entered the room, sank wearily on a chair, and
buried her face in her hands. She was a woman who seldom wept; but now
her whole frame shook with convulsive sobs. Lottie knelt down beside her,
looking up with anxious grief and fear into her mother’s face. She could
with difficulty catch the meaning of Mrs. Stone’s scarcely articulate
words:
[Illustration: THE MOTHER’S RETURN.]
“Thank God, at least I was in time to see him, to be with him, at the
last!”
Then the widow raised her head, stretched out her arms, and drew sobbing
to her heart her two fatherless children.
Yes, the long-cherished dream of hope was over; the erring
husband—forgiven, loved, and watched for—had returned to his native
shore to die. Stone had seen his injured wife, and breathed his last
sigh in her arms. Had he died a penitent? Deborah fondly clung to the
hope; and when she had a little regained her composure, repeated to her
children again and again every faintly-breathed sentence from the lips of
the dying man that could possibly be deemed an expression of penitence or
an utterance of prayer. Who could have borne to have quenched her hope,
or who would dare to say that the daily supplication of wife and children
for a wandering sinner had not been answered at last?
As Deborah had hardly had one hour’s uninterrupted sleep during the
preceding week, she was almost overpowered by physical weariness as well
as by mental distress; and Lottie had little difficulty in persuading her
to go to bed at once. This was the poor widow’s only place of refuge from
the intrusion of her neighbours; for no sooner was it noised through Axe
that Mrs. Stone had returned home after attending the death-bed of her
husband, than some impelled by sympathy, some by mere curiosity, visited
her humble lodging, tormenting the weeping Lottie with questions, or
well-meant attempts at offering consolation. She was thankful to close
the door at last upon all, and with a very heavy heart prepare to go
herself to rest.
“Shall we have just a bit of a prayer together, Steady, as we always
have?” said the poor girl, with a faltering voice. It had been the habit
of the brother and sister thus to pray, from the time when they had knelt
as children together in their cottage home at Wildwaste, perhaps to be
startled from their knees by the noisy entrance of a parent reeling home
from the ale-house. Steady was very quiet, almost stolid; he had had no
outburst of sorrow on hearing of the death of his father; perhaps those
miserable days at Wildwaste had left deeper memories on a mind more slow
to receive or to part with impressions; he had certainly never been
buoyed up with the same joyous hopes as his sister had been, and was
therefore less sensitive to disappointment. The lad knelt down without
reply, leaving, as usual, to Lottie the uttering of the simple prayer, to
which he was wont to add the closing Amen.
“Pray God bless and keep dear—;” Lottie could go no further. Alas! who
has not felt how the first omission of a dear familiar name in prayer
brings vividly to the soul of the mourner the reality of that separation,
which, as regards this world, is softened by no hope. Lottie could only
sob, while her brother, slowly and very briefly, concluded the little
prayer.
Lottie rose on the morrow with the feeling that there was a great blank
in her life; and yet it was not in the nature of things that she should
sorrow as long and as deeply for such a parent as Abner had been, as
for one who had faithfully fulfilled the duties of husband and father.
She resolved to devote herself more than ever to her mother; and was
almost glad, for her sake, that she herself had been obliged to leave
Wildwaste. The return of Arthur and Lina Madden from Palestine had
diverted the attention of gossips from the subject of Lottie’s mysterious
sovereigns, and as it was widely known that she had been seen on the box
of a carriage in which not only Arthur but Mr. Eardley had been seated,
slander itself was forced to own that “the gentlefolk, anyways, seemed to
know as how Lottie had come honestly by that money; though ’twas a pity,
it was, that she made such a mystery about it.”
In the afternoon the unwelcome step of Mrs. Green was heard on the stair.
It was her third visit on that day to the widow’s little room, as she
had twice before bustled up “just to see if she could do nothing for the
poor soul,” as she said, but in reality to pick up scraps of gossip to
retail to the baker’s sisters and the linen-draper’s wife. This time,
however, Mrs. Green came up eager to impart news rather than to hear it.
Unceremoniously seating herself in the darkened room of sorrow in which
were the newly-made widow and her fatherless girl, she said to Lottie,
who was preparing the simple afternoon meal, “I say, Lottie Stone, I
think that there new house at Wildwaste is somehow bewitched! Here’s you
a-running away from it, you can’t or you won’t say why; and now there’s
its own master suddenly disappeared, and no one knows what’s become of
him.”
“Disappeared!” echoed Lottie, in surprise.
“Ay; no one’s seen nothing of him since last night, and all Wildwaste’s
in a commotion. He’d been to bed, too, that was clear; and no one saw
him leave the house in the morning; and Hannah says that she could take
her oath that the chain was up on the house-door when she went to it at
seven. But Mr. Gritton’s not in the Lodge; it’s been searched from top to
bottom.”
“He’s been lost in the bog—like that miserable Dan Ford,” said Deborah,
gloomily.
“No, not that,” replied Mrs. Green; “the bog’s not in a dangerous state
just now; we’ve had so much hot sunshine, that you might ride a horse
across the common from one end to the other.”
“Is my dear lady much frightened about her brother?” asked Lottie, who
had been listening with breathless interest.
“Not half so much frightened as one might expect, Hannah says; nor half
so much surprised at his disappearing. It seems as if she’d a notion
where he has gone, though she does not choose to tell what she knows. But
Miss Gritton ain’t very well, they says; depend on’t, she’s in for the
fever. There’s nothing in the world so catching as small-pox.”
Lottie’s heart sank within her.
“Mrs. Bolder thinks,” continued Mrs. Green, “that Mr. Gritton has just
gone off to Lunnon to be out of the way of infection; but it’s odd enough
that he should have gone away without his hat, for that’s hanging up in
the hall; and its odder still that he should have been pulling about the
furniture like a madman. Hannah told Mrs. Bolder, though she did not say
a word of it to trouble Miss Gritton, that she found the study in strange
disorder—the table pulled out of its place, the very drugget rolled up!”
Lottie was hardly able to stifle the sudden exclamation which rose to her
lips.
Having unburdened herself of her news, Mrs. Green suddenly remembered
that her kettle would be boiling over, and bustled out of the room.
Lottie waited impatiently for a few seconds, till she was certain that
the landlady was out of hearing, and then with energy exclaimed, “Mother,
mother, I must be off to Wildwaste; I’m sure and certain I’m wanted.”
“I’m sorry you ever left your good place there, Lottie; maybe they
would not take you back now,” said Deborah sadly. As Lottie had had the
small-pox in her childhood, her mother did not fear her catching the
complaint.
“Whether they will take me back or not, mother, I must go,” said Lottie
emphatically; “master’s lost—maybe I’ll find him!” and hurriedly,
as if every moment were precious, she took down from their peg her
straw-bonnet and cloak.
“It’s getting on in the day, my child, and a walk to Wildwaste is a deal
too long for you now. To-morrow I’ll get the baker to take you in his
cart—at least a good bit of the way.”
Lottie clasped her hands with a look of anxious entreaty. “Don’t stay me,
mother, don’t stay me. If Wildwaste were twice as far off, I’d walk all
the same. I can’t stop till to-morrow; I should not close an eye all the
night!”
Deborah had never before known her young daughter’s mind so resolutely
bent upon any course; she saw that some very urgent motive indeed
was drawing Lottie towards Wildwaste. She believed this motive to be
affection towards her young mistress, and gave up opposing the wishes
of her child; only insisting on her taking with her a small bundle of
clothes, and refreshing herself by a cup of tea before she started. In
less than a quarter of an hour Lottie was hastening on her way towards
Wildwaste.
“It’s all clear to me,” murmured the girl to herself, as she rapidly
walked along the street; “master has gone down into that dismal place to
look after his money, and somehow he has locked himself in and cannot
get out; and no one thinks of looking for him there; and so he’ll be
starved to death, or maybe go right mad in that horrible vault. Hannah
is hard of hearing—if he called ever so loud she’d never hear him in the
kitchen; and my lady is upstairs, so his voice would never reach her. It
makes one’s blood cold to think of his trying to get help, and shouting
and calling, and never a soul going near him! I must go and tell those
who are searching where to look.” Lottie had been walking very fast, but
she slackened her pace as a difficulty occurred to her mind. “But I must
not tell any one of that vault—no, not even Miss Isa; have I not solemnly
promised to keep the secret? I must go down myself all alone to that
gloomy place. But what if master should be hiding there on purpose; or
if some one should come on a sudden and find me down there amongst all
the silver and gold, might I not be taken for a thief? I have suffered
so much already, I could not abide any more of these cruel suspicions;
and maybe I’d be sent to prison this time, and that would break mother’s
heart altogether.” The simple girl was so much startled by the images
of terror called up by her excited fancy, that for a moment she felt
inclined to turn back. “Suppose I tell Miss Isa—only Miss Isa; that would
keep my character clear; and it cannot do harm for her to know where her
own brother hoards all his money. But that promise—that fatal promise!
What would the Lord have me to do? It is so miserable to be able to ask
advice of no one, not even of my own dear mother! I seem going right
into the darkness—but then, as Mr. Eardley would say, I’ve the trumpet
of conscience, and the light of the Word, and the Lord Himself will guide
me, and make me triumph over all difficulties, if I put my firm trust in
Him. It seems so wonderful that the glorious King of Heaven should think
of or care for a poor ignorant child like me!”
The shades of evening were gathering around her before the weary Lottie
trod the well-known path over the common that led to Wildwaste Lodge.
She looked up anxiously at the windows as she approached the house; she
was uneasy regarding the health of her dear young mistress. When Hannah,
after tedious delay, answered Lottie’s timid ring at the door-bell, her
first anxious question was, “Oh, tell me, how is Miss Isa?” Lottie had
to repeat it, for the old servant seemed more deaf, as well as more
ill-tempered than usual.
“She has a headache—natural enough, turning herself into a sick-nurse
for a stranger as gives more trouble than thanks. And she’s a worritting
after master, who has disappeared, no one knows how. But what brings you
back, like a bad halfpenny, Lottie?” added the peevish old woman; “you
chose to take yourself off without warning, leaving all the work of the
house on my hands, and now you may just keep away—there’s no one as wants
you here!” and Hannah almost shut the door in the face of the girl.
“Let me in—for just this night—oh, let me in. I’ve walked all the six
miles from Axe; I can’t go back in the dark all alone!” pleaded Lottie,
whose brow and lip were moist with toil-drops, and who felt the absolute
necessity of searching the vault without the delay of another hour.
“Hannah, I’ll work like a slave; I’ll do anything that you bid me; just
speak a word for me to my mistress, pray her to let me stop, at least—at
least till the morning.”
“How can I be worritting Miss Isa, with asking any-think for the like
of you,” said Hannah ungraciously, opening the door, however, a little
wider, so as to give admittance to Lottie. “You may go there into the
kitchen—everything there wants cleaning and looking arter, for not a
minute have I had to myself this blessed day, what with the fetching and
carrying upstairs, downstairs, and all the stir about master, which has
turned the house upside down. There—you get water from the pump, and fill
the kettle, and wash up the plates, while I go up with the medicine;
there’s Miss Madden’s bell ringing like mad!”
Lottie retired to the kitchen, but neither to rest nor to work. After
listening for a few moments to the slow step of the old servant as
she mounted the stairs, grumbling at every step, the girl seized her
opportunity, and darted into the study. The table had not been drawn back
to its place, the brown drugget lay as Gaspar had left it; but though
Lottie knew the situation of the trap-door in the floor, she could not at
once discover it, either owing to the opening being so well concealed,
or from her own nervous haste causing confusion in her mind. Having at
last, rather by feeling than by sight, found the portion of the planks
that could be moved, Lottie lifted the trap-door and again timidly gazed
down into the darkness below. Before she ventured to descend she paused
and listened, to make certain that Hannah was still upstairs. She heard
the woman’s heavy step in the room above, and then, feeling that every
minute was precious, Lottie hastily descended the ladder. Not having
brought a light with her, and the vault being utterly dark, the girl had
to grope to find the handle of that inner door which Gaspar had closed,
but not locked, behind him. Lottie pressed against the door, but felt
that something within resisted her efforts to push it open. She used more
strength, pressing with knee and shoulder; the resisting body, whatever
it might be, yielded a little under her efforts. There was an opening
sufficiently wide to admit the girl’s hand. Lottie sank on her knees, and
put down her hand in order to feel what was the nature of the obstruction
which the darkness prevented her from seeing, and uttered a shriek of
horror upon touching a clammy human face! A frightful conviction flashed
on her mind that her master had been murdered for his money, and that it
was his corpse which lay within the vault.
“Oh, they’ve killed him!” she exclaimed aloud in accents of terror,
starting to her feet, as she uttered the exclamation of fear.
“Killed whom?—in mercy speak!” cried the agonized voice of Isa from
above. Miss Gritton had chanced to enter the study in search of some
papers, and was with astonishment bending over the open trap-door, when
she caught the sound of the terrible words from below. Isa could scarcely
see the top rounds of the ladder, so obscure had the twilight become; she
knew not whither it might lead, or what horrors might lie at the bottom,
yet she hesitated not for one instant, and almost before the sound of her
terrified question had died away, she was at the side of Lottie in the
utter darkness of the vault.
“Master has been murdered!” gasped the young maid. Gaspar could hear her
exclamation distinctly, but was unable to speak a word in reply.
“Gaspar—O my brother!” cried Isa, in a tone of piercing distress.
That cry from the lips of a sister broke the spell of the strange trance
with which Gaspar Gritton had been bound. During all the long hours of
his terrible imprisonment he had been unable to stir or to make the
least sound; and though he was conscious of Lottie’s presence when she
touched him, and could hear her voice, he had still remained as it were
dead, helpless as a corpse in his living grave. But to Isa’s call, to his
inexpressible relief, Gaspar was able to answer; the hitherto paralyzed
limbs stirred with life, and with a murmured “God be praised!” he awoke
from what appeared to him like a dream of unutterable horror.
[Illustration: FOUND IN THE VAULT.]
But Gaspar’s powers were in a very feeble state; he was unable at first
even to move far enough from the door which divided him from his sister
for it to be opened sufficiently wide to admit of her passing through.
“Oh, for a light!” exclaimed Isa; then hearing Hannah’s step in the
study above, she called out loudly, “Bring light—help—quick, quick—your
master’s dying down here in the vault!”
Some minutes of terrible anxiety followed; Isa dreaded to see what light
might reveal, for the idea of murder, first suggested by Lottie, was
uppermost in her mind. Hannah had rushed towards the hamlet to summon
aid; Isa sent Lottie up the ladder for a light; the girl had hardly
procured it when the hall of the Lodge was filled with a party of
workmen, whom Hannah’s loud call for assistance had brought to the house.
By the help of the men’s strong arms, Mr. Gritton was carried up from his
gloomy prison-vault, and laid on his bed. Thankful indeed was Isa to find
that her brother was unwounded, and apparently unhurt, though in a very
weak and nervous condition. She neither questioned him, nor suffered him
to be questioned, but she marked the glances of surprise and suspicion
exchanged between the workmen, who had seen what they were never designed
to see, and learned what they were never intended to know. Gaspar’s
secret was a secret no longer, except as regarded his way of acquiring
the hoards of treasure, of which an exaggerated account spread through
all the hamlet before the morning.
Having thanked, rewarded, and dismissed the workmen, Isa sat for hours
watching by her brother, and listening to a confession from his lips
which filled her heart with mingled grief, shame, thankfulness, and hope.
There are some men whom judgments only harden—a thunderbolt might
shatter, but it never would melt them—Gaspar’s nature resembled not
such. He felt on that solemn night much as Dives might have felt had his
tortured spirit received a reprieve, and been permitted once more to
dwell upon earth. He had been given a glimpse, as if by the lurid light
of the devouring flame, of the utter worthlessness of all for which man
would exchange his immortal soul. The impression might become weakened by
time, but upon that night it was strong. Gaspar unburdened his soul to
his sister; he told her all, even to Lottie’s discovery of the treasure,
and besought Isa’s counsel in the difficult strait into which his
covetousness had brought him.
Confession—reparation! From these Gaspar shrank, as the patient from the
knife of the surgeon. Could no milder remedy be found, could there be
no compromise with conscience? Isa dared suggest none, though she would
have given all that she possessed on earth to save her brother from
the bitter humiliation of acknowledging to Cora Madden the base fraud
which he had committed. The strength of Isa’s faith and obedience was
brought to painful proof on that night. If she had yielded but a point,
if she had counselled delay, if she had administered an opiate to the
tortured conscience of her brother, as all her tender woman’s nature,
ay, and all her woman’s pride, pleaded for her to do, Gaspar would,
like Felix, have put off the hated duty for a more convenient season,
and the precious moment for action would have passed away for ever. But
Isa had the fear of God before her eyes; she had a keen perception that
this was a crisis in the spiritual life of her brother, that his soul’s
interests for eternity might hang on the result of his decision on that
night. Her voice had aroused him from the death-like stupor of the body,
her voice was to be also the means of quickening the lethargic soul. The
whisper of delay in his case could but be the breathing of the enemy who
would lure him to destruction. Isa reminded Gaspar of the resolution of
Zaccheus, when he had received the Lord into his home and his heart: it
was not “I will give,” but _I give_; it was not “I will restore,” but _I
restore_. Gaspar was irresolute, undecided, but his good angel was beside
him to help his weak nature in the great mental conflict. It was almost
midnight before that trying interview ended, and the brother and sister
separated, the one to sink into a troubled slumber, the other to return
to the chamber of Cora, intrusted by Gaspar with the responsible and most
painful charge of making for him that humiliating confession which he
himself had not the courage to make.
[Illustration]