TOO GREAT A BURDEN
Abel Force went into the little room he had engaged, adjoining the sick
chamber of his wife.
It was no more than a closet, and had evidently been used as a dressing
room attached to the large chamber before the exigencies of war had
rendered space in the house too valuable for the little place to be used
for any purpose but a bedroom.
It was furnished very simply, with an iron bedstead, a washstand with a
glass above it, a single chair, and half a dozen wooden pegs on the door
to hang clothes.
Mr. Force turned the back of the only chair to the window that was
opposite the door and overlooked the yard; and he sat down and drew the
packet he had taken from his wife’s room, and again looked at the
superscription.
Yes, it was directed in a firm hand to:
“Abel Force, Esq.”
It was tied up with cord and sealed with wax.
But under the cord a little note had been slipped, and this also was
addressed—but in a weak and tremulous hand—to:
“Abel Force, Esq.”
He opened the note to read it. It was without date; yet he felt sure
that it must have been written on that very morning before the sudden
fall of the woman had prevented her flight.
The note ran as follows:
“The hour has come when I must drop the mask of deceit and show myself
in my true colors—a living lie, a hypocrite, though never, never happy
in falsehood and hypocrisy. Your love and trust have wounded and
tortured me; the reverence of children has humiliated me. No, never
for a moment happy or at ease in my disguise. It is almost a relief
now to throw it off and reveal myself as I am, even though the
revelation must banish me from your presence and my children’s forever
in this world, and perhaps in the next. Yet, I repeat, it is a relief
to throw off the disguise which has suffocated me like a heavy cloak
these many years; and has been more than that—has been like Medea’s
robe of fire for the last few years since Anglesea’s first visit to
us.
“The inclosed packet contains a manuscript that was written at
intervals during this time, and with a view to the chance of just such
a crisis as has now come. I leave it for you to read. I do not ask you
to pardon me, for I know there is no such thing as pardon for me in
this world. I do not even ask you to judge charitably of me—charity is
for the sinner, not for the hypocrite. I only ask you to read the
story that you may understand the fiendish hold one human being had
upon my body, soul and spirit—my very life here and hereafter; and,
after having read it, I, who have no right to ask you anything, dare
still to ask you this—to ask, to plead, to pray that you will be kind
to one who is the guiltless victim of others’ guilt, and to save him,
if you can. And now, farewell! And oh! my whole heart goes out in this
cry. Oh, God! Oh, God! though I cannot be pardoned—yet, oh! hear my
prayer, and save and bless my husband and my children!”
That was all.
Abel Force dropped his head upon his breast, and remained in deep
thought for a few moments. Then, with a heavy sigh, he aroused himself,
drew a match case from his pocket, lighted a match, set fire to the
little note and held it down upon the stone window sill, with the point
of his penknife, until it was consumed to ashes.
Then he went to lock his door, to prevent intrusion; but he found that
he had already taken that precaution.
Finally, he returned to his chair, cut the cords of the packet, broke
the seal, and read as follows:
“THE STORY OF A WITHERED HEART
“You have often heard how lonely, loveless and neglected was my
childhood and youth. You are reminded of these facts now, not in excuse
of what followed, but as the causes of the effects that destroyed my
life.
“You know that I was born at Enderby Castle, where the first years of my
infancy passed.
“When I was scarcely four years of age I lost my mother—too young to
understand or to lament my loss. The pageantry of her funeral is one of
the strongest impressions among the brain pictures of that time.
“A few days after that event my father left Enderby, taking me with him.
“We went to Weirdwaste, an estate he had acquired through his marriage
with my mother, situated on the west coast of Ireland. It was, if
possible, even more drear, lonely and desolate than Enderby Cliff
itself.
“This place, in which I was destined to pass my childhood, was built of
gray stone, two stories high, around the four sides of a hollow
quadrangle, at the inland end of a long, flat point of land stretching
far out into the Atlantic Ocean, which at high tide swept over it,
covering more than two-thirds of the ground; and the moan of the sea
never ceased from the sorrowful shore. North, west and south around the
point of land nothing but sky and water was to be seen. East—inland—was
a wild waste, dotted here and there by the huts of the poorest peasantry
on the island, and that means, also, the poorest people on the earth.
“The old manor house was shockingly out of repair, but because it was
the best building on the estate it was occupied by my father’s land
steward, O’Nally, and his wife.
“These two had been old servants of my mother’s family, and had been
very much devoted to her.
“After my father’s arrival with me at the house they also acted in the
capacity of butler and housekeeper.
“My father had brought with him a valet and a groom, and for me a nurse
and a governess.
“I was very warmly welcomed and fondly caressed by my mother’s old
servants, and so for the first few days I was very happy at Weirdwaste.
“We had no neighbors but the poor tenantry in the huts, on the waste
behind the manor house.
“And we saw no company but the vicar of the little Protestant parish, in
the village of Bantrim, ten miles inland, and the county practitioner
from the same place.
“These two old men remain strong, clear portraits in the gallery of my
memory.
“The vicar, Mr. Clement, was a large, fair, clean-shaved, bald-headed
old gentleman, with blue eyes and a beaming smile. He was very, very
good to me, and I soon learned to love him.
“The medical practitioner, Dr. Alexander, was a tall, gaunt, high-nosed,
red-faced man, with a shock of iron-gray hair and whiskers; a formidable
frown and a brusque manner. He also was very, very kind to me, but I
never got over my fear of him.
“My father did not intend to remain at Weirdwaste, as I soon found out.
He had the vicar and doctor come and spend the day and dine at the
house, so that they might see the child who was to be left at Weirdwaste
under their joint care.
“The doctor pronounced me a wonderfully sound and healthy child, who
would grow finely in the pure, invigorating air of the seaside. The
doctor promised to look after my health, and the vicar to superintend my
education. And both engaged to write frequently and keep my father
advised as to my welfare.
“So, having taken every precaution he thought necessary to my
well-being, and having settled the urgent business that brought him to
Ireland, my father bade me good-by, and left Weirdwaste to travel on the
Continent.
“And then began the loneliest life ever led by motherless child.
“O’Nally and his wife were an old couple. They kept two old servants—a
woman, who did the housework; and a man, who did the outdoor work. And
they kept an old horse and an old jaunting car.
“My nurse was a respectable, elderly matron; my governess, a discreet,
middle-aged maiden, selected by my father especially for good qualities.
Surely I had all the care and protection that was needed. But I had no
love, no play, no amusement, no companions. Even the warm-hearted
peasant women, who had come down from their huts on the waste to welcome
their little lady of the manor, came no more after that first day—not
that they had ceased to care for me, but because the occasion of their
coming had passed, and their hard work kept them all at home.
“On fine Sundays O’Nally took me in the jaunting car, with himself and
his wife, to church, and we heard Mr. Clement preach, and after the
service I sometimes got a pat on the head, and a smile and kind word
from the vicar. He was a widower without children, so I never was asked
to his house.
“Once a week the county practitioner rode out to the manor house to see
after my health, that he might report to my father. Also, if no one from
Weirdwaste happened to go to church on a Sunday, the vicar would ride
out to the manor in the course of the week to inquire the cause of
absence, and report to my father.
“These occasional drives to church on Sundays, and semi-occasional
visits from the vicar and the doctor, were the only variations in the
monotony of my days, which were ordinarily passed in this way.
“At seven o’clock in the morning, Nurse Burns would wake me up, give me
a bath, and dress me in such a plain black frock! I had not even the
pleasure of pretty clothes! And then she would give me my breakfast—such
a plain breakfast of oatmeal and milk! I had never the indulgence of
cakes or sugar plums, which was all very well for me, no doubt, but
which was also very dull. Then came Miss Murray with the school books,
and I would sit alone with her in the schoolroom, trying to study my
first reader, while she sat reading or sewing, but scarcely ever
speaking.
“Then came the noon dinner of boiled mutton and potatoes.
“And after that more school for an hour or two.
“Then a walk on the sands, all around the point, if the tide was low;
or, if the tide were high and the cape covered with water, we took a
walk on the waste behind the manor house.
“Sometimes I got a letter from my father, inclosed in one to the steward
or to my governess.”