REVEALS THE SORROWS OF A MERE PEASANT MAIDEN.
Lady Harriet did not even hear of her son's ongoings with Sally Wanless,
though to the menials of her household and the gossips of the village
they had furnished for months back one of the most delightful and
engrossing topics of conversation that the oldest among them had ever
been permitted to share in. It was better than the most sensational
romance of the _London Journal_; for was not this drama being acted out
before their very eyes? They took the same delight in it, though keener
and deeper, that they would have taken in any sport involving the death
of the weaker creature, and few among them cared in the least for the
girl whose danger they failed not to see. Among the young her beauty
excited envy, and they virtuously rejoiced that her pride would yet
bring her sorrow. All, young and old, loved an intrigue for itself; and
would not have spoiled their sport for the world. The servants at the
Grange carried their tales to the village, and the village gossips drew
together in the fields, on the road, by the pump, at cottage doors, to
roll the sweet morsel of scandal under their tongues.
All this time Sarah's parents were kept in ignorance of what was afoot.
Neither dreamt of danger to their daughter, because neither was aware
of the fiend who pursued her. As for Sarah herself, she behaved better
after she had begun to feel the spell of the Captain's fascination upon
her than before; was more demure and obedient. This she was half
unconsciously, half from a wish to propitiate her father and mother in
view of she knew not what.
Pausing not to think, heedless of the smiles and whispers, the nods and
winks that greeted her wherever she went, all of them signs full of
warning to one disposed to alarm, free, happy-hearted Sally Wanless
plunged into the abyss.
Ruined and forsaken, she came to herself only to find that she had
entered a new world. Sorrow and darkness dwelt within where light had
been; and around her all was changed. The silent hints of her fellow
servants gave place to open taunts and scorn. None pity a fallen woman
so little as her fellow women, and Sally's fellow servants were not long
in making her life an unrelieved agony. The bloom forsook her cheek, her
step became listless, her eyes dull and sunken. She literally withered
before her tormentors, and they pitied her not.
A change so great soon attracted the attention of her parents,
especially as for a little time her manner in her visits to them became
suddenly dashed with recklessness. The wretched girl, in trying to be
her old self, was, like a bad actor, overdoing her part. Her parents
grew uneasy, and the uneasiness gave place to alarm when Sally grew pale
and silent. Afraid to speak, hoping it might be some cross in love
matters, which most young lasses experience, both her father and mother
yearned after their daughter. At length the accidental discovery of some
trumpery trinket of the Captain's, which Sally wore round her neck, led
to the revelation of all their daughter's peril and loss, although the
knowledge came too late.
The ribbon by which the trinket hung had become loose, and it fell on
the floor. Before Sally could pick it up, her mother's hand was on it.
Holding it to the light, she found that it was a gaudy looking locket,
and instantly demanded where Sally had got this. Taken by surprise Sally
answered at once,
"From Captain Wiseman."
"From Captain Wiseman! Oh, Sally!" That was all she said; but the tone
and the look went to the girl's heart and tore it with a new misery. Her
father turned in his chair and looked at her for a minute or two without
speaking. She took his gaze to mean rebuke, and mechanically tried to
escape from the house. Then her father spoke.
"Stay, Sarah," he said. "Go with your mother to the boys' room. We must
know what this means."
Equally mechanically she obeyed, suffering her mother to lead her away.
Left alone, Thomas said that he did not think of anything particular for
some time. He just sat still as if animation was suspended, a dull
feeling of pain, a sense of stunnedness possessing his whole being. The
fate of his pretty daughter was before his inward eye all the time. He
gazed at it and realized it, but it did not move him. His emotions were
frozen up.
It was some time before the mother and daughter came back, and the girl
would not face her father. He rose to bid her good night. She hesitated
a moment and then muttering, "I shall be late," turned and fled from the
house.
Mrs. Wanless told her husband that she could make nothing of the girl.
"I plead with her," she said; "I scolded her and tried to work on her
feelings, but she just hid her face in her hands, and rolled and moaned
like to break her heart."
Poor, lone lass, her tale needed no words to make it plain. Already it
was known to all the village, and this Sunday night the hideous reality
entered the minds of her parents, breeding there a sorrow the keenest
they had ever known.
At the Grange, too, who was there knew not? That Sunday night Sally was
actually late as she had said, and the scolding, seasoned with brutal
taunts, which she had to endure from her superior, might have stung the
girl to retaliation had not a deeper pain laid hold of her spirit. She
paid no heed to the taunts and broad allusions of her neighbour, whose
heart was perhaps the bitterer from the recent failure of her own last
effort at husband-catching. A fire raged in Sally's heart that seemed to
be consuming her very life. Her one hope now was to die. That would be
best. As soon as possible she crept silently away to bed. How blessed is
the darkness to the soul that is ashamed! Sally's grief, deep and
bitter though it might be, was little to the sorrow and pain she had
left that night in the home of her childhood. The deathly calm in her
father's mind was succeeded by a storm before which Sally's sobs were as
the wailings of an infant. His spirit had been stirred to its depths by
many storms in the past, and needed much to rouse it now, but what he
had learned to-night was surely enough. In the darkness of the night the
full horror of what had befallen his daughter and himself was pressed in
upon his thoughts till his heart rose in bitterness unspeakable. Was it
true, then, he asked himself again and again, that his child, the
darling of his old age, had been ruined by this cub of the oppressor?
Had this blackest of all wrongs been added to all the rest? There was
but one answer, and as he brooded over the shame and misery that would
fall upon his daughter and on all the family, as he thought of this
heartless seducer going through the world scathless, passion swelled
within him. An impulse to vengeance swept over him. Had the Captain been
within reach of Thomas's hands then, the old man might have slain him.
Yes, he felt he could die cheerfully for his daughter's sake, were her
wrongs fully avenged. Ah, if he could thus bring back her good name! But
would not mere vengeance be sweet? To take the scoundrel's life-blood!
He set his teeth, his frame shook under the gust of his terrible agony
of grief, hatred, and shame, and he longed for the daylight that he
might go and find the seducer of his precious one. The desire for
revenge was strong upon him with the strength of a great temptation.
Then his mood changed. The fierce fires burnt themselves low. Weary and
exhausted he lay still, and for the first time became aware that his
wife was silently weeping by his side. He had thought she slept. A
softer mood stole into his heart, but he could not speak of the grief
that consumed them both. In the morning he rose, weary and sad, to go
about his day's work. Days passed before he made up his mind what to do,
and during these days, his wife waited with anxious patience, too wise
to worry her husband. At last, he resolved to bring her home. Anger and
revenge were conquered thus far, and love and pity for his child were
victorious.
"We must take Sally's shame to ourselves, mother," he said to his wife,
when his mind was made up. "I know it will be hard for you, harder than
you think; but she is our flesh and blood, and we must stand by her.
What say ye, wife?"
"An' what can I say, Thomas? I've been wishin' her home ever since
Sunday, for I'm sure she'll die where she is. Oh! my poor darling; God
pity her. The sin is surely not hers;" and Mrs. Wanless wept, but her
heart was glad that the father was ready to shield and forgive.
Sometimes, as she watched the hard stern lines of his face, or his fixed
gaze of wrath, she had dreaded a sterner decision. But now again
Thomas's better nature had triumphed, and his faith in the everlasting
justice inclined him to mercy.
As this talk took place on the Thursday evening, it was thought best to
wait for Sally's return on Sunday, rather than to excite comment by
going at once in quest of her. Her mother had stolen to the Grange on
the previous Monday morning, to find out whether Sally had gone back,
and had then seen and heard enough to make her dread another visit.
But they waited in vain for Sally that Sunday. She never came near her
father's house, but spent her hours of liberty alone in the woods,
afraid to face her father, and vaguely wishing she were dead. Her mother
must go and tell her what had been decided on, after all.
So on the Monday morning, Mrs. Wanless again set out for the Grange.
With sickening heart and trembling steps, she crept along the sweeping
avenue like a thief in dread of being seen. The day was grey and cold,
as the latter days of April often are, and the leaden clouds threatened
rain. It was one of those days when spring has, as it were, turned back
to give a farewell hand-shake to winter. A chilly blast swept along the
ground in gusts, and made one shiver; the world looked dreary and
forbidding; birds were silent; and as one looked abroad on the cheerless
world, and mournful sky, one grew unconsciously to have a shut-in kind
of feeling. If only a rift would appear in that grey canopy, then one
might breathe and have hope. Who has not come under the spell of such
days? To whom have they not seemed to increase the bitterness of sorrow,
to add weight to the burden of disappointment?
Mrs. Wanless was probably all the sadder this morning that the day was
sad, though her thoughts were too fixed on Sally to be overborne by any
idle impressions from the leaden aspect of the landscape. Or perhaps
she felt that the day and her feelings were in wonderful unison. A
beautiful spring morning might have jarred on her spirit. Spring
sunshine is so gladsome, so full of hope, and Mrs. Wanless had no hope,
only a longing to bring her daughter home and hide her away out of the
world's sight.
Intent on her errand, she approached the house--a large, square
building, with innumerable staring windows and a bare lawn in front,
where a poor woman could find no hiding place--but as she neared the
servants' door round in the east end of the mansion she paused
irresolute. She remembered the reception of a week ago, the whispers and
nods and innuendos of the wenches who came and went with a wonderful
bustle of extemporized activity as she stood speaking to her daughter
just by the door. If Sally would but come out, she thought, as once and
again she turned back unable to muster courage, and cowered by the
garden wall, which approached that end of the house, wherein lay the
servants' quarters, with her old shepherd's plaid shawl gathered tightly
round her. But no one came save menials, out of whose sight the poor
bruised mother would fain have kept herself. The children of the
gentlefolks would not be out of doors that day. It was too cold.
At last Mrs. Wanless nerved herself to a desperate effort, left the
shelter of the garden wall, and walked as firmly as she could up to the
kitchen door, and feebly knocked. She waited a long time as it seemed to
her palpitating heart, but no answer came. Her knock had not been heard,
so she tried again, this time a little less feebly. It was no
use--nobody minded her. Would she go away? Nay, she dared not do that.
She would wait, somebody was sure to turn up presently. The resolution
was hardly formed when the door opened, and her daughter and she stood
face to face. A scared look came into the girl's eyes as she exclaimed,
"You here again, mother;" the blood mantled to her forehead, and she
half stepped back. But her mother caught her by the arm feverishly, and
led her away from the house, saying--
"Oh, Sally, I do so want to see you, but I didn't like to come in again.
Why didn't you coom home last night?"
Sally tried to frame some excuse, but her voice failed her; she turned
pale as death, and hung her head.
"Why didn't you, dear;" her mother repeated, in a dull, mechanical sort
of way. Sally's feelings overcame her. She burst into tears, and through
her sobs gasped out--
"I thought you--father--wouldn't let me come back."
Her mother did not at once reply, she was too pained, and also too
keenly alive to the eyes that were at many a window gloating over her
daughter's misery. Almost roughly she tightened her grasp on the girl's
arm, and hurried her round the corner of the garden wall, never halting
till safely behind a clump of evergreens. Then she released her
daughter, turned, and clasped her to her breast. Both wept now, and, as
she wept, the poor, stricken mother cried--
"Ah, Sally, Sally, my pet, my pet, you mustn't think on us like that,"
in tones that expressed reproach and love and pity and misery all in
one. But no word of reproach did she utter.
It was some time before the two were composed enough to say much about
anything. Sally roused herself first, for she suddenly recollected that
she had orders to be quick back. She had been sent out for milk for the
nursery.
"I must run, mother," she said hurriedly, "or Mary Crane will nag at
me;" and she made as if to go.
"Wait a moment, Sally dear," her mother answered. "I had nearly
forgotten what I came for; A-dear! a-dear! you mustn't stand no more of
Mary Crane's naggings, Sally; an' if she begins to-day, you're to give
up the place and coom home. Now, mind, Sally," she added, eagerly, "that
will be best, give up your place;" for Sally seemed to shrink from the
idea of coming home.
"But father----he"----
"It was father as said it, Sally dear. Father says you must coom home.
He can't a-bear to see you suffering and abused in this big house as
you've been so wronged in; an' ye'll do what father wishes, won't you,
my pet?"
"Is it really true, mother. Are you sure that father will let me coom
home?"
"My dear, he sent me to tell ye. Oh, say ye'll coom home, Sally?"
"But father'll be angry with me and scold me, mother, and I can't abide
that--oh, I can't, I can't," and Sally shook her head despairingly, the
gleam of hope vanishing from her eyes.
"No, Sally, your father wonnot scold ye. Surely you know him better nor
that. He is too heart-broke about ye a' ready to have any scoldings
left, an' he was never hard to ye. Coom, now; say you'll give up the
place, and it will be all right."
This and much more the mother said, pleading as for her daughter's life,
and she won her point. Once Sally's dread of her father was somewhat
removed, she caught eagerly at the prospect of escape from the Grange.
Any change would be like going from Hell to Heaven that would take her
away from that place of torment. So anxious was she to get away, once
her mind became fixed, that she never once thought of the burden she
would be to her parents. But for the inexorable month's warning, she
would have taken flight that night.