JANE'S STORY.
"An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye.
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago.
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know;
With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ear receives
their wailing,
'Let me kiss my Celin ere I die--Alas! alas for Celin!'"
LOCKHART'S SPANISH BALLADS.
The news of the sad death at the park spread like wildfire through the
quiet, little village, and soon reached the turnpike gate, where Jane
was fast recovering from the fever that had proved so fatal to poor
Bertie. She, like Frances, moaned and wept when she heard of it; like
her, her heart cowered and shrank within her; and for three days she
could scarcely be persuaded to eat or drink, or say a word to anyone.
Day after day she lay in her bed with her face steadily turned away
from her sister, who as usual, tried to worry her into a more reasonable
frame of mind, but finding it useless, left her to herself, and called
her sullen; but it was not so, Jane's heart had been touched and
softened ever since the unfortunate day of Bertie's visit; he had done
more towards bringing repentance to that guilty heart than years of
suffering had been able to accomplish; for Jane had suffered, suffered
from the weight of a secret, that at times well-nigh made her as crazy
as Marks imagined her to be. It was this terrible secret that had made
her so silent and strange, this that had driven her neighbours to look
upon her as half-witted. But she wanted no one's pity, no one's
consolation, had steeled and hardened her heart against it, and let her
life pass on and wither in its lone coldness. As she had lived, so she
might have died, smothering all remorse, driving back each repentant
feeling as it swept past her; might have died--but for Bertie's visit.
Since then, the firm will to resist the good had been shaken; she was
not only weak from the effects of the fever, but inwardly weak; weak at
heart, weak in spirit. She battled with the repentant feelings so
foreign to her, fought against what she had been a stranger too for so
long, but it was all in vain; she resisted with a will, but it was a
feeble will, and in the end the good triumphed, and Jane was won.
One morning, the fourth since Bertie died, Mrs. Marks took up Jane's
breakfast as usual, and placed it on a chair by the bed-side.
"Here's a nice fresh egg," said she, "what you don't often see, this
time of the year, I wish it might strengthen your lips, as well as your
stomach. I'm sick of seeing you lie there with never a word. I'd rather
a deal have a bad one, than none at all," and she drew back the
curtains, and stirred up the freshly-lit fire.
"I'm ready and willing to speak," replied Jane, "though God forgive me,
it's bad enough, as you say, what I have to tell."
Mrs. Marks was startled, not only at Jane's addressing her after so long
a silence, but at the changed voice, so different to the usual reserved,
measured tone, and short answers given in monosyllables. But she took no
notice, and merely said,--
"What's the matter? Ain't the breakfast to your liking?"
"It's better than I deserve," was the reply.
Mrs. Marks was more amazed than before. "You don't feel so well this
morning, Jane," said she, kindly, "the weakness is bad on you, like it
was on me; but, please God, you'll get round fast enough, never fear.
Here!" and she placed the tray on the bed, "take a sup of the tea, and
I'll put a dash of brandy in it; that'll rouse you up a bit, I'll be
bound."
Jane made no resistance, but as Mrs. Marks put down the cup, she placed
her hand on hers, and said, "You won't think me crazy, Anne, if I ask
you to send and beg young Master Robert to come and see me?"
"Don't you know he's been dead these four days past? There--there, lie
still, and don't be a worriting yourself this way; your head ain't
strong yet."
"It's stronger and better than it's been many a long day. Anne, I must
see Master Robert, not the dead child, but the young Squire. I've that
to tell him that'll make his heart ache, as it has mine, only there's
sin on mine--sin on mine," said she, sitting up in bed, and rocking
herself about.
"Then don't tell it. What's the use of making heart aches?"
"I can't bear the weight of it any longer. I must tell. Ever since I saw
that child I've been striving against it; but it's no good--no good. I
can't keep the secret any longer, Anne. I dare not. If I do it'll drive
me clean out of my mind."
"Just you answer me one question, Jane. Is it right to tell it? Can any
good come of it?"
"Yes, so help me God. It can! It will!"
"Then," replied Mrs. Marks, "I'll send Matthew at once; mother and I
always thought there was something had driven you to be so strange when
you left your place up at the Park fifteen years ago."
Jane laid herself down and covered up her face, while with a troubled
sigh Mrs. Marks went below to seek her husband.
Matthew was surprised and confounded when bidden go up to the Hall and
fetch the Squire.
"What!" he said, "are yer gone clean crazy as well as Jane! It's likely
I'll go and fetch the Squire at the bidding of a 'dafty.' How do I know,
but what it's a fool's errand he'll come on?"
But reason as he would, his words had no weight with Mrs. Marks, and
Matthew had to go in the end, though with a more misgiving heart and
rueful countenance than when he had gone to the young doctor's.
There was little occasion for misgivings on Matthew's part, Mr.
Linchmore received him kindly, and promised to call at the turnpike
during the day.
What setting to rights of the cottage there was when Marks returned with
the news! It was always tidy and clean, but now for the especial honour
of the Squire's visit all its corners were ransacked and everything
turned topsy-turvy. Mrs. Marks was still unable to help much in the
work, but she dusted and tidied the cups and saucers, and knick-knacks,
although they had not seen a speck of dust for days, and certainly not
since she had been downstairs again; Sarah's arms ached with the
scrubbing and scouring she was made to do in a certain given time, while
her mistress stood by, scolding and finding fault by turns. Nothing was
done well, or as it ought to be done; but then, as the girl said, Mrs.
Marks was so finicking, there was no pleasing her, she should be glad
enough when she was able to do the work for herself, and she could go
home to her mother.
When Mr. Linchmore came, he scarcely rested in the newly swept parlour
at all, but desired at once to be shown to the sick woman's room. With
many apologies from Mrs. Marks at her sister's inability to rise and see
him, she preceded him up stairs.
Jane was sitting propped up in bed with pillows, her pale face looking
paler and more emaciated than usual. Mr. Linchmore's heart was touched
with pity as he noted the care-worn, prematurely old face, with its deep
lines telling of sorrow or sin. Sin! Surely if this woman's life had
been sinful, what had he, with his strict principles of right, to do
with such as her? What had she--as Marks assured him--to tell, that
nearly concerned himself? His heart reverted to his mother. Was it of
her she would speak? of her whose ungovernable temper had driven his
father to seek with his children that happiness abroad that had been
denied him at home? But then his mother had been mad, at least he had
been taught to think that the one excuse for her strange conduct. How
severe and tyrannical she had been, not only to his brother and
himself, but to that sweet, uncomplaining sister, whose life had been,
he truly believed, shortened through her violence, and yet again, when
the passion was over, how fiercely loving, how vehemently passionate in
her cravings for her children's love, which she alienated from her more
and more each day. No; others might love and reverence the name of
mother, but Mr. Linchmore's heart was stirred with no such feelings;
only a vague sense of fear, a nameless dread of evil came across him as
he fancied it might be of her Jane had to speak.
He drew near, and bent down kindly. "I fear you have been very ill," he
said, "with the same fever that has wrought such desolation in my home."
"Yes, sir, I have been ill--am ill; but now it's more from remorse; from
the guilt of a wicked, cruel heart, than this same fever you speak of."
There was a pause. Jane spoke with difficulty, her breath came quick
and short, as though her heart laboured heavily under the load of sin
she spoke of.
"Turn more to the light," she said, "so that I may see your face.
So--that is well. Still like your mother, strangely like, with none of
her hard passions or cruel hate. Your love might be fierce, burning, and
strong, but unlike her you would sacrifice your own happiness to secure
the well being of the one you love. Had she done so, what misery to her,
what misery to me might have been spared?"
"Did you know my mother?" asked Mr. Linchmore.
"Tell him, Anne," said Jane, as Mrs. Marks held some wine and water to
her pale lips, that seemed too feeble to utter another word.
"If you please, sir," said Mrs. Marks, dropping her deepest curtsey,
"this is Tabitha, my sister 'Tabitha Jane,' who was brought up so kindly
by your lady mother; but there, I don't wonder you don't remember her. I
had a hard matter to myself, when I went over to Dean to fetch her,
come four years ago this next Christmas."
"Tabitha! This Tabitha! The pale, meek girl, who bore so uncomplainingly
what we boys resented. Can this be Tabitha?"
"Yes," replied Jane. "It can. It is. The weight of a guilty secret has
ploughed my face with these deep furrows. Call me not meek; I was
anything but that, I was a sinful, wicked woman. Oh! I have much to
tell: much that has been locked up in my heart for more than thirty
years. How I have suffered under the burden that at last has grown too
heavy for me to bear, and I sink under its load, must divulge it; must
have her forgiveness, ere I die!"
"Your words fill me with a foreboding of evil," replied Mr. Linchmore.
"Think well before you speak, Tabitha. Is it necessary that this secret,
sinful as you say it is, should be divulged. Does it concern, does it
benefit those living?"
"If it did not, I would never speak it, but struggle on with its
sorrow, till I died. No hard, and cruel as my mistress was, not from
Tabitha should come the tale that will denounce her and her evil ways."
"She was my mother, Tabitha," said Mr. Linchmore, as if reproaching her
harshness.
"True, she was. I do not forget it; still I must speak, must tell of her
sin and mine, for it is sin, fearful sin. I would, for your sake, Master
Robert, that it were otherwise; but when I tell of my wrong-doing, with
mine must come hers. It must. Justice must be done. The mother's
craving, broken heart must be healed."
"God forbid that I should be the one to stand in the way. Speak,
Tabitha! but be as merciful as you can; remember you speak of one whose
memory ought to be dear to me. I will steel my heart to hear--and bear."
"Do so," she said. "It is a long story. I must go back to the days when
I was a child, and your mother, Miss Julia, took me away from my home to
hers. She was of an imperious will and proud nature; her mother had
died at giving her birth, and her father had never controlled her in any
way. She was as wild and wayward as the trees that grew in the forest
near here, when they were shaken by the wind. With her, to ask was to
have, and when she brought me home and declared her intention of
bringing me up, and making a companion and plaything of me, no objection
was raised, and she petted and scolded me by turns, as it suited her
haughty will. At first I disliked her, then feared, and at length loved,
worshipped her, as some beautiful spirit. Her father died; but then it
was too late to save his child, or let others teach her wild spirit
lessons of meekness and obedience; then your grandmother came and took
us both away to live in her own home. She was a widow, with two sons,
the eldest not quite so old as Miss Julia.
"A change came over your mother. She loved. Loved the eldest of the two,
your father; loved as only she could love, with all the wild, impetuous
passion of her nature. It would have been strange had he not loved her
in return--so beautiful, so wayward, so bright a being as she was then.
They were engaged to be married, and, I believe, had they married then
all would have gone well, and perhaps the evil that followed been
averted. But they did not marry, they tarried--tarried until another
girl, a niece, was left desolate, and she too came to Brampton."
Jane, or Tabitha, paused for a moment, then went on more slowly,
"She was, I believe, an angel of goodness, as pure as she was fair, and
as meek and gentle as your mother was ungovernable. From this time
nothing went right. Your father and my mistress had words together
oftener than formerly; but while she wept and lamented in secret, he
would seek Miss Mary, and pour out his wounded heart to her. By degrees
Miss Julia grew to learn it, and became jealous. Then, with the
fierceness of her nature, she would storm and rave if she but saw Master
Robert speaking to her; and yet, when the angry fit was over, be as
humbly loving, as passionately sorry.
"Things could not go on like this for ever. I believe her temper was
fairly wearing out your father's love, and that he would gladly have
turned over to Miss Mary if he could; but I, who was set as a watch and
a spy over the poor young thing--she was eighteen years younger than
your mother--saw that her heart was another's, even young Mr. Archer's,
who was part tutor, part companion to your father's younger brother. How
I hated her then--for I had dared to love him myself--and determined on
her ruin! How I hid the secret that would have made Miss Julia so happy
in the deepest recesses of my heart, and urged my mistress on to believe
that Miss Mary loved Master Robert!"
Again Jane paused, then continued as she turned her face away from Mr.
Linchmore, who was listening intently to her,
"One morning, I remember it well,--I had quietly wrought Miss Julia up
to such a pitch of frenzy, that I believe she would have stopped at
nothing to accomplish the removal of her hated rival,--the door was
suddenly flung open by your father; his face was pale, and he was
evidently labouring under strong excitement. 'Julia,' he said, 'do you
still wish to be my wife?'
"There was no need of a reply, could he not see the sudden light in her
eyes, the quick bright flash that spread like wildfire over her face.
"That day week they were married, and went away from Brampton for a
time.
"I remained behind with my enemy, watching and waiting; but I could do
her no harm. Your grandmother loved her as the apple of her eye. I could
see Miss Julia--now Mrs. Robert Linchmore,--was as nothing to her. Then
I tried to cause a quarrel between her and young Mr. Archer; in vain;
they loved too well, my arts were useless, my plans and wishes
powerless.
"Your parents returned. A year passed away, and then you were born; but
I could see your father was not happy. He still loved Miss Mary, strive
as he would against it, while your mother treated her like a dog.
"Another year, and your sister was born; but things went worse. Your
mother was no sooner up and about again than your uncle's health failed
terribly, and he and Mr. Archer went abroad.
"Six months passed, during which your mother grew more insanely jealous
of Miss Mary, and more tyrannical. She bore it all uncomplainingly; but
I saw that she worried and fretted in secret, and grew thinner and
thinner every day.
"One morning I went hastily into her room, and found her working a
baby's cap, which she hurriedly thrust on one side as I entered; but my
suspicions were aroused at her evident confusion, and glancing at her,
her sin--if sin it was, became evident to my eyes, and I flew, rather
than walked to my mistress's room. The scene that followed between her
and Miss Mary I will not describe; but through it all--although she did
not deny the imputation we cast on her,--she vowed she was innocent, and
Mr. Archer's lawful wife. I believed her then. I know she told the truth
now.
"That night she fled from the Park, while your father left soon after to
join his brother, declaring he would never live with his wife again
until she had done Miss Mary justice. Your grandmother never recovered
the shock of all these terrible doings, she took Miss Mary's sin to
heart. I don't think she believed it: but she sorrowed, and refused to
be comforted, and soon after died. Then news reached us of Mr. Archer's
death."
Jane stopped again, and lay back feebly against the pillows.
"With the news of his death came a letter, addressed, in his
handwriting, to Miss Mary. I recognised the writing, and kept the
letter, mad as it made me to read those loving words of his written to
another. She never had the letter, or her marriage lines, which were
with it."
"Wretched woman!" said Mr. Linchmore, sternly. "Had you no heart--no
mercy?"
"No, none. And now I must hasten to close, for I am weak and faint. I
told no one of the letter, but tracked, by my mistress's order, Miss
Mary. I found her at last. She had heard of her husband's death, for she
wore widow's mourning, and looked heart-broken. She was poor, too, with
only the small annuity old Mrs. Linchmore had been able to leave her;
for her husband, Mr. Archer, had not, I believe, a farthing to give her
at his death; but what cared I for that. I took away the one tie that
bound her to this earth--I took her child."
"That was not my mother's sin," said Mr. Linchmore, interrupting her.
"Thank God for that!"
"Stop! Don't interrupt me! I did it, because she bade me do it. I don't
think then I should have done it else, because _he_ was dead, and my
heart did not feel so hard as it had done, and I should have told my
mistress how I had belied Miss Mary to her, had I dared summon the
courage to do so; but I dreaded to think of her anger at being deceived.
Well, enough, I took the child. He was a lovely, sweet infant, gentle
and fair like his mother had been, and I could not find it in my heart
to do the evil with him my mistress wished; for her heart could not but
feel savage at the thought of his being her husband's child. So I kept
him hid away till long after I had stolen him; then I carried him to Mr.
Vavasour, a kind, mild looking, middle-aged gentleman, who had often
visited the Park at one time; but now, ever since Mrs. Robert had been
left in possession, never came.
"Mr. Vavasour refused to take the child at first, but I pleaded so hard;
I told him what the boy's fate would be if he turned a deaf ear to my
entreaties; that the mother hated him as a love child, and that the
knowledge of his birth would bring sin and shame upon her, and much more
beside, and in the end he consented to adopt him,--and did. Four years
after this, your father returned home, and things went on more smoothly;
your brother Charles was born, and my mistress seemed at last happy, and
her restless spirit satisfied; but her temper, at times, was as bad as
ever, and I don't believe, at heart, she was happy with the weight of
the sin she thought she had been guilty of, on her conscience. How Miss
Mary came to guess we had aught to do with her boy, I know not. But
about a year after your brother's birth she came and taxed us with the
theft. How altered she was! Grief and the mother's sorrow had done their
work surely, and I scarcely dared look on the wreck I had helped to
make.
"She told us that the loss of her child had driven her mad, and that for
months she had been watched and looked after. She conjured
us--implored--all in vain; my mistress denied our guilt, and defied her;
but your father believed the poor, sorrowing, frantic creature, and
never spoke to his wife after, but left her, taking his children with
him.
"He never saw your mother again.
"My mistress bore up bravely after he was gone. None guessed of her
desolated heart, or that it still loved so passionately. During the five
years that followed, I scarce know how she lived; I could see her heart
was fast breaking, and that all her hope in life was gone. She grew more
tyrannical than ever; there was not one of the few servants we had but
did not fear her and think her mad. She would go down the small
staircase that led from her room out into the park, and roam for hours
at night. As she grew weaker and weaker, and I felt she would die, my
heart relented more and more. I could not bear to witness her misery.
Then I owned the boy was alive, and begged and implored her to let us
find him and restore him to his mother; I dared not say I knew where he
was, or that he was not her husband's child; but she resisted my
entreaties with violence, and made me swear I never would tell what we
had done. She grew worse and worse; but struggled on, defying every
thing and everyone. I had a hard matter to get her to see the young
doctor even.
"One night she was so weak she would lay on a mattress on the floor, not
having the strength to get into bed; as I sat by her side and watched,
she fell into a deep sleep. Soon after, I heard steps coming up the
secret stairs; I needed no one to tell who that was--my heart whispered
it was Miss Mary long before she stood before me. She never said a word,
but sat away on the other side of my mistress. My heart shuddered as I
looked at her; she was more altered than ever; her hair was quite grey,
such lovely fair hair as it had been!--the softness of her face was
gone; the sweet gentle look had gone too, and a painful frown contracted
her forehead. While I gazed, I forgot Miss Mary, and could think of
nothing but the angry, bereaved, half-crazed Mrs. Archer. I knew then,
that those who had injured her had no mercy to expect at her hands, and
I felt afraid of her, and yet I dared not bid her go, but wished my
mistress would tell her the truth when she awoke from that death-like
slumber. I prayed she might,--for what harm could that angry mother do
to a dying woman? But my prayer was not answered. I forgot, when I
breathed it, my own sinfulness,--forgot, even, that if vengeance came at
all, it would fall on me; and, if I had thought of it, I would not have
stayed the truth from being told then. I swear I would not. I was too
miserable. God knows, I would have told, myself, but for the sake of my
oath, and that angry look on Mrs. Archer's face; it tied my tongue.
"When my mistress roused, I shall never forget her anger at seeing Mrs.
Archer. She heaped a storm of abuse on her head, while Mrs. Archer
prayed and wept by turns; promising even to bless those who had robbed
her, if they would only give her back her lost treasure. 'Give me back
my boy!' was the ever repeated, fervent, agonized cry of her heart."
"She did not, could not plead in vain," cried Mr. Linchmore. "No, no, my
mother was not so bad as that!"
"Nerve your heart to bear the rest, it is soon told. Tears streamed from
her eyes in vain. She pleaded in vain. My mistress was obdurate. 'I
die,' she said, 'but I die with the knowledge that you, who have been
the one stumbling-block of my life, and have made it miserable, and a
curse to me, are even more wretched than myself, for I will never speak
the word that will make you happy. The secret shall die with me.' When
Mrs. Archer saw that all her pleading was vain, she grew frantic, and
scarce knew what she said in her madness. My mistress grew even more
angry than she. I strove to quiet her, to stay the torrent of words, but
her whole frame shook with angry passion as she sat up unaided on the
bed. I saw it was too much for her, tried to avert it, but, before she
could utter a word, she fell back again. 'God have mercy upon me!' she
cried, and with that one prayer on her lips she died. I know no more, I
fell insensible, as Mrs. Archer, seeing her last hope gone, gave one
terrible fearful cry of despair."
Jane paused. "I have no more to tell," she said feebly, "I thank God I
have told it; I never would, but for the sake of the curl. I daren't let
it lie in my bosom else."
It was many minutes before Mr. Linchmore could speak, and then his voice
quavered and shook, and his hands trembled as he drew them from his
face, and asked, "Where is the mother--the child?"
"Mr. Vavasour, up at the Park now, is the child. Mrs. Archer, the
mother, lives down in the wood, yonder. I have never seen her but once
since I came here; I have fled the sight of her. You know her as Mrs.
Grey. You will see her, tell her what I say; she will believe it fast
enough."
"Your sin has been fearful; God knows it has," said Mr. Linchmore,
trying to speak composedly.
"I have been a sinful woman; humbly I acknowledge it, but if my sin has
been great, what has been its punishment? Look in my face, you will read
the traces of suffering there; but my heart, you cannot read that; and
that has suffered tenfold."
"What proof have you of all you say?"
"Mrs. Archer will need none," she said, "if you tell her Tabitha swears
it's the truth. But here's the letter with her marriage lines," she
added, taking one from under her pillow, "many's the time I've been
tempted to destroy it, but somehow daren't do it; and here's another old
Mr. Vavasour gave me to keep, stating when and how we had received the
child; in it you'll find the beads he wore round his neck when I stole
him."
"Are these all the proofs you can give?"
"No. I've a stronger one than this. The child had a dark mark on his
arm, it could not have escaped his mother's eye; it can't have worn
away, it must be there now, and that'll tell who he is plainer and
better than any words of mine. "Are you going?" she asked, as Mr.
Linchmore rose.
"Yes, the sooner I tell the dreadful tale the better, if my heart does
not break the while. Have you anything else to say? Would you wish to
see Mrs. Archer?"
"Oh! no! no!" she said, "don't send her; I know I've no mercy to expect
at her hands, I showed her none. She'll hate and curse me, may be."
"You have little mercy to expect from one you have so deeply injured,"
replied Mr. Linchmore, "but I will see you again, or send another to
speak with you. My thoughts are in a whirl, and I cannot--I feel
incapable of talking to you today."
"And must I be satisfied with this?" said Jane, "well, I submit; I have
not deserved a kind word from you. Still I loved your mother."
"She would have been better for your hate," he replied, moodily, "but in
case I should not come again, I leave you my forgiveness for the evil
you have helped to work, though it goes hard against my heart to give
it; but you have a higher mercy to ask for than mine. I trust you have
implored that already--humbly and sincerely."
"God knows I have," replied Jane, feebly.
Mr. Linchmore went slowly from the cottage, scarcely heeding Mrs. Marks'
curtseys and parting words, and struck across the fields towards the
wood.
It was a sinful, grievous tale, the one he had just heard, and a bitter
trial to him, not only to listen to it, but to know that from his lips
must come the words to denounce his mother,--proclaim her guilt. It went
bitterly against him, although he had no loving reverence for his
parent; still, it must be done, his misery must make another's
happiness, must restore the son to his mother. He hesitated not, but
walked firmly on, perhaps angrily.
At the corner of the wood he met Marks, but his heart was too full for
words with any one, and he merely acknowledged the passing touch of his
hat, as he turned off into one of the by-paths, a nearer cut to Mrs.
Grey's cottage. Just as he was about to emerge again into the broad
beaten path, scarcely a dozen yards from the cottage, he stopped for a
moment to collect his thoughts. A slight rustle in the bushes near
attracted his attention. He looked up, and saw a man, gun in hand,
creeping cautiously out of the underwood.
At another time Mr. Linchmore would have confronted him at once, but now
he allowed him to pass on unmolested. The man crossed the path, reached
the opposite side, and was about plunging again into the bushes, when
Robert Vavasour's hand arrested his footsteps.
"What do you here with that gun, my man?" he asked.
It was growing dusk, almost twilight in the wood; still, as the man
suddenly turned his face full on Vavasour, the latter exclaimed,
"Ah! it is you, is it? You villain! you don't escape me this time."
A short quick scuffle, a bright flash, a loud report, and Robert
Vavasour dropped to the ground.
With a great oath, the man sprang up, but ere he could stir one step,
Mr. Linchmore's hand was upon him. A desperate struggle ensued; but a
stronger arm, a more powerful frame, contended with him now, and in a
few moments he lay prostrate, but still struggling, on the ground.
"Could you be content with nothing less than murder?" asked a voice,
sternly.
Mr. Linchmore shuddered as he recognised "Goody Grey."
"For God's sake, Mrs. Grey, go and seek help for the wounded man
yonder."
"Why should I?" she exclaimed, fiercely. "I will never stir a finger for
you or yours. I have sworn it."
"It is your son, your long-lost son! Tabitha bid me tell you so."
Goody Grey,--or rather Mrs. Archer's,--whole frame trembled violently;
she quivered and shook, and leant heavily on her staff, as though she
would have fallen.
"Fly!" he continued. "For God's sake, fly! Rouse yourself, Mrs. Archer,
and aid your son."
"My son!" she repeated, softly and tenderly, but as if doubting his
words.
Again Mr. Linchmore implored her, again she heard those words "It is
your son!" which seemed to burn her brain. But the power of replying, of
moving, seemed taken from her.
A minute passed, and then the weakness passed away. Her eyes flashed,
her face flushed, then blanched again, while with a mighty effort she
drew up her tall figure to its utmost height, and proudly, but
hurriedly, went over to where Robert lay.
She staunched the blood flowing from the wound, and tenderly knelt by
his side and lifted his head gently on her bosom.
There was a slight break in the branches of the trees overhead, so that
what little light there was, streamed through the gap full down on the
spot where Mrs. Archer knelt.
She raised his coat sleeve, and baring his arm, bent down her head over
it.
A moment after a wild cry rent the air, and rang through the wood.
"Oh! help! help!" she cried; "Oh! my son! my son!"
There was no need to cry for help; the sound of the gun had been heard,
and the keepers came crowding to the spot, and with them, Marks.
A litter was soon constructed for the wounded man, and once more he was
mournfully and sorrowfully borne away towards the Hall.
Marks drew near the captured poacher, now standing sullenly and silently
near.
"Ah!" said Marks, as he was being led away, "I thought no good had
brought farmer Hodge down here, four years ago. You'll may be swing for
this, my lad; and break your father's heart, as you did your mother's,
not so long ago."
With which consolatory remark, Marks went back to his cottage.