The child of William and Agnes was secreted, by Rebecca, in a distant
chamber belonging to the dreary parsonage, near to which scarcely any
part of the family ever went. There she administered to all its wants,
visited it every hour of the day, and at intervals during the night
viewed almost with the joy of a mother its health, its promised life--and
in a short the found she loved her little gift better than anything on
earth, except the giver.
Henry called the next morning, and the next, and many succeeding times,
in hopes of an opportunity to speak alone with Rebecca, to inquire
concerning her charge, and consult when and how he could privately
relieve her from her trust; as he now meant to procure a nurse for wages.
In vain he called or lurked around the house; for near five weeks all the
conversation he could obtain with her was in the company of her sisters,
who, beginning to observe his preference, his marked attention to her,
and the languid, half-smothered transport with which she received it,
indulged their envy and resentment at the contempt shown to their charms,
by watching her steps when he was away, and her every look and whisper
while he was present.
For five weeks, then, he was continually thwarted in his expectation of
meeting her alone: and at the end of that period the whole design he had
to accomplish by such a meeting was rendered abortive.
Though Rebecca had with strictest caution locked the door of the room in
which the child was hid, and covered each crevice, and every aperture
through which sound might more easily proceed; though she had surrounded
the infant's head with pillows, to obstruct all noise from his crying;
yet one unlucky night, the strength of his voice increasing with his age,
he was heard by the maid, who slept the nearest to that part of the
house.
Not meaning to injure her young mistress, the servant next morning simply
related to the family what sounds had struck her ear during the night,
and whence they proceeded. At first she was ridiculed "for supposing
herself awake when in reality she must be dreaming." But steadfastly
persisting in what she had said, and Rebecca's blushes, confusion, and
eagerness to prove the maid mistaken, giving suspicion to her charitable
sisters, they watched her the very next time she went by stealth to
supply the office of a mother; and breaking abruptly on her while feeding
and caressing the infant, they instantly concluded it was her _own_;
seized it, and, in spite of her entreaties, carried it down to their
father.
That account which Henry had given Rebecca "of his having found the
child," and which her own sincerity, joined to the faith she had in his
word, made her receive as truth, she now felt would be heard by the
present auditors with contempt, even with indignation, as a falsehood.
Her affright is easier conceived than described.
Accused, and forced by her sisters along with the child before the
curate, his attention to their representation, his crimson face, knit
brow, and thundering voice, struck with terror her very soul: innocence
is not always a protection against fear--sometimes less bold than guilt.
In her father and sisters she saw, she knew the suspicions, partial,
cruel, boisterous natures by whom she was to be judged; and timid,
gentle, oppressed, she fell trembling on her knees, and could only
articulate,
"Forgive me."
The curate would not listen to this supplication till she had replied to
this question, "Whose child is this?"
She replied, "I do not know."
Questioned louder, and with more violence still, "how the child came
there, wherefore her affection for it, and whose it was," she felt the
improbability of the truth still more forcibly than before, and dreaded
some immediate peril from her father's rage, should she dare to relate an
apparent lie. She paused to think upon a more probable tale than the
real one; and as she hesitated, shook in every limb--while her father
exclaimed,
"I understand the cause of this terror; it confirms your sisters' fears,
and your own shame. From your infancy I have predicted that some fatal
catastrophe would befall you. I never loved you like my other children--I
never had the cause: you were always unlike the rest--and I knew your
fate would be calamitous; but the very worst of my forebodings did not
come to this--so young, so guilty, and so artful! Tell me this instant,
are you married?"
Rebecca answered, "No."
The sisters lifted up their hands!
The father continued--"Vile creature, I thought as much. Still I will
know the father of this child."
She cast up her eyes to Heaven, and firmly vowed she "did not know
herself--nor who the mother was."
"This is not to be borne!" exclaimed the curate in fury. "Persist in
this, and you shall never see my face again. Both your child and you
I'll turn out of my house instantly, unless you confess your crime, and
own the father."
Curious to know this secret, the sisters went up to Rebecca with seeming
kindness, and "conjured her to spare her father still greater grief, and
her own and her child's public infamy, by acknowledging herself its
mother, and naming the man who had undone her."
Emboldened by this insult from her own sex, Rebecca now began to declare
the simple truth. But no sooner had she said that "the child was
presented to her care by a young man who had found it," than her sisters
burst into laughter, and her father into redoubled rage.
Once more the women offered their advice--"to confess and be forgiven."
Once more the father raved.
Beguiled by solicitations, and terrified by threats, like women formerly
accused of witchcraft, and other wretches put to the torture, she thought
her present sufferings worse than any that could possibly succeed; and
felt inclined to confess a falsehood, at which her virtue shrunk, to
obtain a momentary respite from reproach; she felt inclined to take the
mother's share of the infant, but was at a loss to whom to give the
father's. She thought that Henry had entailed on himself the best right
to the charge; but she loved him, and could not bear the thought of
accusing him falsely.
While, with agitation in the extreme, she thus deliberated, the
proposition again was put,
"Whether she would trust to the mercy of her father by confessing, or
draw down his immediate vengeance by denying her guilt?"
She made choice of the former--and with tears and sobs "owned herself the
mother of the boy."
But still--"Who is the father?"
Again she shrunk from the question, and fervently implored "to be spared
on that point."
Her petition was rejected with vehemence; and the curate's rage increased
till she acknowledged,
"Henry was the father."
"I thought so," exclaimed all her sisters at the same time.
"Villain!" cried the curate. "The dean shall know, before this hour is
expired, the baseness of the nephew whom he supports upon charity; he
shall know the misery, the grief, the shame he has brought on me, and how
unworthy he is of his protection."
"Oh! have mercy on him!" cried Rebecca, as she still knelt to her father:
"do not ruin him with his uncle, for he is the best of human beings."
"Ay, ay, we always saw how much she loved him," cried her sisters.
"Wicked, unfortunate girl!" said the clergyman (his rage now subsiding,
and tears supplying its place), "you have brought a scandal upon us all:
your sisters' reputation will be stamped with the colour of yours--my
good name will suffer: but that is trivial--your soul is lost to virtue,
to religion, to shame--"
"No, _indeed_!" cried Rebecca: "if you will but believe me."
"Do not I believe you? Have you not confessed?"
"You will not pretend to unsay what you have said," cried her eldest
sister: "that would be making things worse."
"Go, go out of my sight!" said her father. "Take your child with you to
your chamber, and never let me see either of you again. I do not turn
you out of my doors to-day, because I gave you my word I would not, if
you revealed your shame; but by to-morrow I will provide some place for
your reception, where neither I, nor any of your relations, shall ever
see or hear of you again."
Rebecca made an effort to cling around her father, and once more to
declare her innocence: but her sisters interposed, and she was taken,
with her reputed son, to the chamber where the curate had sentenced her
to remain, till she quitted his house for ever.