A Confession
The two girls sank into the pool below, then, rising to the surface,
caught with frantic fingers at a rotten willow bough that overhung the
water. Neither could swim, and in desperate plight they clung to the
frail and insecure support. Almost choked with their dipping, their hair
and clothes streaming, they still managed to call vigorously for help.
But already their weight was splitting the decayed old willow: there was
an ominous crack, a sudden rending, a piteous cry, and, still clutching
the severed branch, they went whirling down the river. Mercifully their
first wild shriek had been heard, and a farmer who lived at the old
millhouse by the weir had come running instantly from his garden. He
arrived on the scene just as the branch broke, and wading into the water
he contrived to catch Dorothy, who was the nearer, and to drag her into
safety. But when he turned to look for her companion, Alison had drifted
along with the stream, and was out of his reach. He could not swim, so
he ran back towards the inn, shouting for help. At the sound of his
cries the stable boy and several others came rushing down the field.
"Fetch a rope!"
"Where's the boat?"
"Cut a long pole!"
"She'll drown while you're doing it!"
"For Heaven's sake don't let her go down again!"
"I can only swim a few strokes, but I'll try if I can reach her,"
exclaimed the stable boy, flinging off his coat and plunging into the
river, which was shallow for a yard or so at the edge.
Venturing out of his depth, he grasped Alison by her dress, then turned,
floundering hopelessly towards the bank. For a moment it seemed as if
both lives must surely be lost, but with a desperate effort the boy
managed to keep himself afloat, and to reach the hand of one of the men
who had waded out to meet him. Between them they pulled the unconscious
girl from the water and laid her on the grass.
"She's gone!"
"No, no; I've seen worse than her as came round."
"Take 'em both into the inn and send Sam on his bike for the doctor."
The first intimation of the accident which Miss Carter received was the
sight of Dorothy walking dripping wet up the garden, followed by a
group of men carrying Alison. She was a woman of sound, practical
common sense, and after the first momentary shock was over she set to
work at once to administer treatment for the drowning, with the help of
the other members of the Guild who were present. Their combined efforts
were so successful that by the time the doctor arrived they had
succeeded in restoring animation.
Dorothy, rolled up in hot blankets, was little the worse for her
immersion, and did not need attention; but the medical man looked grave
when he saw Alison.
"She is suffering from severe collapse. Have you sent for her mother?"
he asked.
Miss Sherbourne and Mrs. Clarke had both been summoned by telegram. They
drove up within five minutes of each other. Poor Mrs. Clarke's frantic,
white-lipped agony was terrible to witness.
"You must save her! She's all I have in the world!" she cried, turning
desperately, almost fiercely, upon the doctor.
"Madam, I use my utmost skill, but life and death are in greater hands
than mine," he replied.
For many hours Alison's life trembled in the balance. The district nurse
had been sent for, and with the doctor watched the case anxiously all
night through. At length, when morning dawned, a turn came for the
better.
"Let her sleep now and she'll do," said Dr. Hall to the nurse. "Can't
we get her mother out of the room somehow?"
"Miss Sherbourne is downstairs. I know her, and I dare say she will
help," suggested the nurse.
Aunt Barbara had also spent the night at the inn, partly because she
thought it wiser to let Dorothy keep warm in bed, instead of attempting
to remove her; and partly because she felt she could not leave till she
knew that Alison was out of danger. She had sat up, hoping that she
might be of assistance, though she had not liked to intrude her presence
into the sick-room until she was asked. She came now at the nurse's
request, and gently persuaded poor worn-out Mrs. Clarke to go downstairs
and have some hot tea, which the inn-keeper's wife had made ready.
"It is better to leave the room in absolute quiet for a while," she
said. "Nurse is keeping watch, and indeed the doctor says there is no
further cause for anxiety."
Mrs. Clarke's hand shook as she held her cup.
"I can hardly realize yet that she is safe. Oh, if you knew how I have
suffered! My head is on fire. I want to go out into the air," she
replied pantingly.
The light was breaking clearly in the east, and Miss Sherbourne opened
the front door. The two women stepped together into the garden.
"Everything seems quiet," said Mrs. Clarke, looking up at Alison's
window. "You are sure, if there is the slightest change, that Nurse will
call me? Then let us walk across the lawn. I want to talk to you. I must
speak now--at once, while I have the courage."
"Shall we sit here?" said Miss Sherbourne, indicating a bench that faced
the dawn.
The hour was strangely beautiful. The sky, flushing in tints of rose and
mauve, heralded the rising sun; the bushes were still masses of rich,
warm shadow, but a group of turn-cap lilies stood out fair and golden
against the dark background, shedding their heavy fragrance around. A
thrush had begun to stir in the laburnum tree, and piped his fine mellow
notes; and a blackbird answered from the elm opposite. The world was
waking to another day of wonderful, pulsing life.
"Weeping and heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the
morning," murmured Aunt Barbara softly.
Mrs. Clarke sat for a few moments gazing at the quiet scene. She was
still intensely agitated, and kept clasping and unclasping her hands
nervously upon her knee.
"I must speak," she began again hurriedly. "If I do not tell you now,
the resolution may go. When I saw my darling lie there, at the very gate
of death, I knew it was a judgment upon me for my long silence--my
criminal silence."
She paused, as if scarcely able to continue. She was weeping bitterly,
and her restless fingers pulled to pieces a rose that she had plucked
from a bush as she passed.
"I hardly know how to explain everything," she went on at last, "but
perhaps it will make it clearer if I begin at the beginning, and relate
the story of my life. Have you the patience to hear it? My sister
Madeleine and I were twins. My mother died in our infancy, and left no
other children, so we two were everything to each other. My father was a
clever but eccentric man, a student and an astronomer. He had never been
fond of company, and after my mother's death he shut himself up more
closely than ever, and became quite a recluse, devoting himself entirely
to his books and his telescope. Though he was fond of us in his way, we
did not see much of him, and he was always so reserved and silent that
we were shy and constrained in his presence. When we were old enough to
leave school, our life at home, in a remote country grange, with little
society to be had in the neighbourhood, was dull and triste in the
extreme. Just after our twenty-first birthday, we made the acquaintance
of two brothers who were staying at a house in the adjoining parish, and
the friendship soon ripened into a warmer feeling on both sides.
"David Clarke, the elder, fell in love with my sister Madeleine, and
Herbert, the younger, with myself. When we broached the subject to my
father, however, he professed great indignation, and forbade either of
the young Clarkes to come to the house. It was extremely arbitrary and
unjust of him to behave thus, for he had no reasonable objections to
raise against them. I can only imagine that he was annoyed that he had
not been taken earlier into our confidence, and hurt that we wished to
leave him. Perhaps, also, he may have had some other matrimonial
projects in his mind for us, though he never made the slightest attempt
to introduce us to any suitable friends. Can you imagine the situation?
Two impulsive, motherless girls in the lonely old house, with no one to
counsel us or help to smooth away any of our difficulties! Our lovers
had business in India, and were shortly leaving the country; and the
idea of parting from them was terrible to us. They pleaded and urged, so
what wonder that there were clandestine meetings, and that one morning
we took the law into our own hands and made a double runaway match of
it? We were both of age, and could therefore legally marry whom we
chose.
"We tried to make peace with our father after the weddings, but he
utterly refused to see us, and we were obliged to start for India
without having received his forgiveness. Within a year we had news of
his death. I think he had been in failing health for some time, and
perhaps on that account had been the more loath to part with us; but he
had shown us so little tenderness that we had never realized that he
wished for our sympathy or affection. Now that I have a child of my own,
I regret that I was not a better daughter to him. In his will he showed
that he had not pardoned either us or our husbands. He left only a small
annuity each to Madeleine and myself, and the bulk of his estate in
trust for his first grandchild. My sister Madeleine's little girl was
born a fortnight before mine, so it was she, and not Alison, who
inherited her grandfather's fortune. I was very angry at the injustice
of the proceeding. It seemed to me monstrously unfair that my little
one, because she came into the world a fortnight too late, should be
deprived of what in all equity ought to have been hers. I was the elder
of the twins, and I considered that any preference should have been in
my favour. I was anxious to bring a lawsuit, and try to upset the will
and cause the estate to be equally divided between my sister and myself,
but our solicitor assured me I had no legal case, and should only
involve myself in endless proceedings and costs. Madeleine and I were
too much attached to each other to have an open quarrel, and before her
I managed to hide my bitter disappointment. We were about to be
separated, for my husband was returning to England, while hers was still
remaining in India. I was thankful afterwards that we had parted on such
good terms, for I never saw her again. Only a few days after our steamer
started she succumbed to a sudden epidemic of cholera that swept over
the place where they were living, and the telegram announcing her death
met me at Port Said. I had loved her dearly, and the blow was cruel. But
there was a harder one still in store for me. My husband, whose ill
health had been the cause of our leaving India, became rapidly worse,
and before I even realized the extent of the danger, he too was taken
from me. In a single year I had lost father, sister, and husband, and at
twenty-three I found myself a young widow, with an only child.
"At this juncture my brother-in-law, David Clarke, returned to England,
bringing his motherless baby in charge of an ayah. He did not intend to
stay, only to settle a few necessary business matters and to make some
arrangement for his little girl, who was delicate, and could not be
reared in India. He had no near relations of his own who were willing to
be troubled with the child, so he asked me if I would undertake to bring
her up with mine, and I accepted the charge. I was drawn to little
Rosamond for her mother's sake, though I could never forgive her for
being a fortnight older than her cousin. So everything was settled. I
took a house in Scotland for the summer, which I thought would be
healthy for the children, and I sent Alison on there in advance with her
own nurse. The ayah who had brought Rosamond from India was to return in
the same ship as my brother-in-law, who was starting immediately for
Madras. He wanted to see his baby till the very last, so I accompanied
him to London, taking with me Mrs. Burke, a respectable woman who had
once been a maid at my father's house, and was now married, to act as
temporary nurse after the ayah's departure.
"When the last good-byes were said, and my brother-in-law and the ayah
had started, I found I wished to do some shopping in London before I
went north. It is awkward and inconvenient to keep a baby at a hotel, so
I determined to send Mrs. Burke with my little niece to Scotland, where
my own responsible nurse was already settled in charge of Alison. I took
them to the station and saw them safely off in the express. In a few
days I intended to follow them. That very night, as I sat at dinner in
the hotel, I heard the newsboys shouting 'Special edition', and learnt
of a terrible northern railway smash. I set off by the first available
train for the scene of the disaster. It was impossible to get beyond
Burkden, for the line was disorganized, but I hired a carriage and went
on to Greenfield. The first point to be ascertained was whether my niece
was among the victims. I wasted some time enquiring at the railway
offices, and it was not till late in the afternoon that I saw a
newspaper poster with the heading: 'Baby's Wonderful Escape from the
Accident'. It was only after further investigations and delays that I
learnt the child was being taken care of by its rescuer at the Red Lion
Hotel. Do you remember how I came into the inn parlour that evening? The
scene is stamped vividly upon my memory. You sat by the fireside with
the baby on your knee; the light falling from the hanging lamp above
made a picture of you both. It had taken a fancy to you, though it was
always shy with me, and its soft little cheek was pressed against your
face. I looked at it, and I think if it had given one sign of
recognition, or held out its arms to me, I should have claimed it. But
it took no notice at all, and my heart hardened against it. A terrible
temptation assailed me. If I disowned the baby, nobody would ever know
its identity. It would be so easy to tell its father that it had
perished in the fire; there could be no positive evidence about any of
the victims of the disaster. If it were out of the way, then my baby
would inherit the fortune which I had always considered was my due. I
was not left well off, and money meant so much to me. I had not been
brought up to study economy, and I hated to be poor. I am a good judge
of character, and I knew from your face that you would not abandon the
child you had saved. I thought Fate had interfered forcibly, and had
given it into your keeping instead of mine. At the moment it seemed to
me a direct interposition of Providence, and a sign that my father's
inheritance was not intended to be lost to me after all. Before me stood
a great choice--the good of my sister's little one, or my own--and I
chose my own. The sequel proved easy--only too easy. I said the baby I
had seen at the inn was not my niece, and nobody doubted my word. My
brother-in-law and the ayah were already on their way to India, Mrs.
Burke was dead, and no one else was likely to raise the question of
identity. The portrait circulated in the newspapers was such a poor
snapshot that neither my nurse nor any of Mr. Clarke's relations
recognized it. They had not known the child intimately; they had only
seen her once or twice in her ayah's arms. Before I left the Red Lion at
Greenfield I ascertained your name--I scarcely knew why; it seemed an
instinct at the moment. I wished to forget it, but it remained all the
same--one of those things which it is impossible to wine from one's
remembrance.
"Years went by, years of prosperity, for in trust for Alison I was a
rich woman. I tried to banish all thoughts of Rosamond, and to justify
my action to myself, yet in my inmost heart I knew I had sinned. For
some time I lived in the Midlands, but Leamstead did not suit my little
girl's health, so I removed to Latchworth. When Alison started to go to
the College and I first saw Dorothy in the train, I was immediately
struck with her appearance. I could not think of whom she reminded me;
her eyes haunted me continually. One day I came home and found that she
had been at our house in my absence, and that Alison was full of her
resemblance to the portrait of my sister Madeleine which hung in the
drawing room. Then I knew, even without the extra links that made the
connection only too plain--the story of her adoption, which Alison had
heard at school; the very name of Dorothy Greenfield, and your name,
which I had not succeeded in forgetting. Alarmed at the recognition, I
forbade Alison to invite her again, and in every way in my power
discouraged the acquaintance between the two girls. I thought of
removing from Latchworth, but I had taken my house on a lease and spent
much on improving it. Everything appeared to conspire against me: first
Alison's extreme affection for Dorothy, then our meeting at the Hydro.,
where my brother-in-law, unaware of her identity, was so charmed with
his daughter. Then came Alison's visit to your cottage on the afternoon
when I fetched her in the pony trap. I at once recognized your servant
as the one I had seen in the inn parlour at Greenfield, and I could tell
by her face that she remembered me. It seemed as if Fate, whom I thought
I had conquered so successfully, was dogging my footsteps. I felt my
position was most unsafe, and only yesterday afternoon I definitely
decided to sacrifice the improvements I had made at Lindenlea and to
remove to the south of England, where there would be no further chance
of Dorothy crossing our path.
"As if in direct consequence of my determination followed this terrible
accident. It seemed to me like Heaven's vengeance on my sin. Was my
innocent child to suffer as the scapegoat for my wrongdoing? I vowed to
God that if in His mercy He would spare her life, I would make a full
confession and reparation, no matter what it cost me. There, I have told
you the whole. Do you despise me utterly? Can you possibly ever forgive
me that I deliberately thrust the child upon you, and let you bear so
heavy a burden all this time? Her own father will be only too thankful
to take her now."
Miss Sherbourne's face was turned towards the golden streak of dawn. For
a few moments she was silent.
"We have both so much to be thankful for this morning, that it makes it
easier to forgive," she said at last. "Yes, the wrong must be righted,
and father and daughter restored to each other; but I am glad I was able
to keep my little Dorothy for my own those fourteen happy years."