Sarah Woodham sat in her little parlour, sallow of cheek, and with a
hard, stern look in her eyes as she gazed straight before her at the
drawn-down blind, and listened to the mournful wash of the waves which
came with a slow, regular pulsation through the open door.
Hers had been no romantic life. Hard working servant for years at the
Fort, till, in a dry, matter-of-fact way, Isaac Woodham, quarryman, and
local preacher at the little chapel, and one of the most narrow-minded
and bigoted of his sect, had cast his eyes upon her in the chapel and
preached to her. He had selected his texts from various parts of the
Bible, where it was related that certain men took unto themselves wives,
and when he was at work he told himself that Sarah was comely to look
upon, and that one of these days he would marry her.
And so it was that previously, on one of these days when he had to go on
business to the Fort, he had told the woman in his hard, matter-of-fact
way that he had prayed for guidance, and that he felt it was his duty
and her duty that they two should wed.
Sarah, in her hard, matter-of-fact way, asked for time to consider the
matter herself, and at the end of a year's cold, business-like term of
probation, she gave Isaac Woodham her hand, left the Fort, and went to
live at one of the quarry cottages, which became at once the most
spotless in the stone-cutters' hamlet by the sea.
They neither of them ever displayed any great affection one for the
other, but led a quiet, childless, orderly life, in which she--with no
pleasant recollections of her sojourn at the Fort, but still with a
deep, almost motherly kind of affection for the girl whom she had seen
grow up to womanhood--listened to and sided with her husband in his
harsh revilings of his tyrant.
It was Isaac Woodham's never-failing theme--his hatred of his master,
whom he looked upon with the bitter, narrow-minded envy of his nature.
Every sharp word was magnified, every business order was looked upon as
an insulting piece of tyranny, and after obeying in a morose, sulky way,
he took his revenge by pitying the owner of the quarry, and praying that
he might repent and become a better man.
This went on for years, during which Norman Gartram did not repent after
his servant's ideas of repentance; and had he known the circumstances,
he would have said he had nothing to repent of, which, as far as his men
were concerned, was perfectly just--his greatest sins being the
insistence upon receiving a fair return for the wages he paid, and a
rather stern way of giving his orders to all, Woodham being the most
trusted for his sterling honesty, albeit Gartram sneered at him as being
full of cant.
Then came the catastrophe, with Sarah, the newly-made widow, in her
bereavement, feeling that in her hard way she had dearly loved the cold,
stern man who had been her husband those last few years; and then she
shivered as she thought of the oath he had exacted from her, and felt
that it was an order from the unseen world.
Her husband had nursed indifference into hatred, till she was as bitter
against Gartram as he was himself; and years passed as the sharer of his
troubles had made her so much akin that, like her husband, she was full
of the bitter letter of the old Scriptures, without the under-current of
the spirit of forgiveness and love.
And so it was that she sat there low in spirit, thinking of the few
short hours that would elapse before friends would come and bear away
the cold, stern-faced form of him who had been her all, straight to the
little chapel-yard, with its rough granite walls, beyond the quarry,
where he would be laid to rest, well within hearing of the waves, which
would lull him in his long sleep, and near to where all day long rang
out the crack of the heavy stone hammers, the ring of the tamping irons,
and from time to time the sharp report and the following roar of some
charge when a mass of the titanic granite was laid low.
Only a few days could elapse, she thought, before, in obedience to the
new orders of a cruel master, she would have to leave the carefully kept
cottage which had been her pride--the only pride to which she gave
harbour in her breast.
And it would be better so, she thought. The sooner Gartram bade her
turn out homeless, almost penniless in the world, the easier would be
her task. It would give her fresh cause for hatred, a new stimulus for
destroying the man who had caused her husband's death.
It was hour by hour, with the dead lying so near, becoming easier to her
to think of Gartram as her husband's murderer. Isaac had with his dying
lips insisted upon it that this was so, and he could not lie. The seed
he had planted then was rapidly growing into a tree, and, accepting the
task, she brooded over the deed she was to do, telling herself that it
was to give immortal rest to him who was gone before; and once the task
was accomplished, she prayed that she might soon rejoin him in the
realms of bliss, and look him again in the eyes and say--"It is done."
How was it to be?
She sat there, with a strange, lurid light in her dark eyes, thinking
over the vengeance and of those of whom she had read; of how Jael slew
Sisera with the hammer and nail--that deadly enemy of the chosen race.
Then of Judith; and a strange exultation filled her breast, and in her
weak, ignorant way she began to feel herself more and more as one
selected to become the instrument of Heavens punishment upon one
accursed.
"The way will be opened unto me," she said to herself. "The way will be
opened unto me, and the wicked shall perish. Yes, husband, you shall
rest in peace."
She started erect in her chair, and turned a fierce look of anger
towards the door, as at that moment there was a light step, a shadow
fell across the clean white stone, a sweet-toned, tremulous voice
uttered her name, and there was the rustling of a dress upon the floor,
while the next moment two soft arms were about her neck, her cheeks were
wet with another's tears. For Claude was kneeling by her, with her head
resting on the hard, heavily-beating heart, and the girl's broken voice
fell upon her ears.
"My poor, poor Sarah! I could not come to you before. What can I do to
help you? What can I say?"
Claude could not see the wild, agonised face, as she rested upon the
trembling woman's breast. There had been kindly, sympathetic,
neighbourly words enough spoken to her before, but these--the words of
the girl she had years before tended and loved, winning her gentle young
love in return--went straight to her overcharged heart. The tears
falling for her sorrow seemed to quench the burning glow of bitterness
and hate, and the next moment vengeance, and the determination to
execute her husband's command, were swept away: her arms were tightening
round the slight, girlish form as if it were something to which she
could cling for safety, and the tears that had seemed dried up, after
searing her brain, poured forth as she bent down sobbing hysterically,
and in broken accents calling her visitor, "My darling bairn."
Half-an-hour had passed, and the bitter wailing and hysterical cries had
ceased, while the suffering woman's breast heaved slowly now, like the
surface of the sea quieting after a storm; but she still held Claude
tightly to her, and rocked herself gently to and fro, as in bygone years
she had held the girl when some trouble had brought her, motherless, and
smarting from some bitter scolding, to seek for consolation and help.
The words came at last to break the silence of the solitary place.
"It was like you to come, my darling, and I shall never, never forget
it. It was like you."
"You know I would have come to you before, but poor papa has been so
ill, and I dared not come away. But he is better now, and sitting up."
The mention of Gartram seemed to harden the woman once more, and with a
catching sigh she sat up rigidly in her chair. The thoughts of him who
lay waiting in the next chamber brought with them the terrible scenes
through which she had passed, and the scale of tenderness which Claude
had borne down now rose upward to kick the beam.
"It was a terrible shock to him," continued Claude. "You have been too
full of your own trouble to know, but he was seized with a fit, and when
I reached home I thought he was dead."
The woman drew her breath hard, but did not speak; only sat frowning,
her brow a maze of wrinkles, her lips drawn to a thin pink line, and her
teeth set fast, gazing once more straight before her at the drawn-down
blind.
"Hah!" she ejaculated at last. "It has all come to an end."
Claude started, and looked up in the woman's face, the words were spoken
in so strange and hard a tone.
"I don't like to talk to you about the future, and hope," Claude said at
last; "it seems such a vain kind of way to comfort any one in
affliction."
"Yes; life is all affliction," said the woman bitterly; and she frowned
now at the kneeling girl.
"No, no; you must not look at things like that, Sarah. But it is hard
to bear. How well I remember coming to see your home directly you were
married."
"Don't talk about it, child," said the woman hoarsely.
"No, we'll talk about something else; or will it not be kinder if I sit
with you only, and stay as long as I can?"
"No," said the woman harshly. "Rennals will take poor Isaac's place.
How soon will it be?"
"How soon?"
"Yes; how soon shall I have to turn out of my poor old home?"
"Don't talk about it now, Sarah," said Claude gently. "It will be
terribly painful for you, I know."
"Painful!" said the woman, with a bitter laugh, "to go out once more
into the cruel world. But a way will open," she added to herself; "the
time will come."
Her face grew more stony of aspect moment by moment, as she gazed
through her nearly closed eyelids straight before her, heedless of the
fact that Claude had risen from her knees, and was holding one of her
hands.
"Don't talk of the world so bitterly, Sarah, dear," said Claude gently.
"I must go now."
"Yes," said the woman, in a harsh voice.
"Mary is sitting with papa till I go back, or she would have come with
me. She sent her kindest and most sympathetic wishes to you. She is
coming to see you soon."
"Yes," said the woman again, in the same strange, harsh way.
"You know you have many friends and well-wishers who will be only too
glad to help you."
"Yes; Norman Gartram, whose first thought is to turn me out of the home
we have shared so long."
"Don't be unjust, Sarah, dear. Papa speaks harshly sometimes, but he
has the welfare of all his people at heart."
"And casts me out on to the high road."
"Nonsense, dear," said Claude gently. "Don't speak in that bitter way,
when we are all trying so hard to soften your terrible loss. Papa's
business must go on; and Rennals, naturally, takes poor Woodham's place.
I thought it all over this morning, and I felt that you would consent."
"To give up the house? Of course; it is not mine."
"And would be of no use to you now."
"No;--but a way will open to me yet," she added to herself.
"Sarah, dear old friend, you could not live alone. You will come back
to your own old place with us?"
"What?"
The woman sprang to her feet as if she had received some shock, then
reeled, and would have fallen, but for Claude's quick aid.
"I have been too sudden. I ought to have waited, but I thought it would
set your mind at rest."
"Say that again," whispered the woman, with her eyes closed.
"There is nothing to say. Papa will agree with me that it would be best
to have our dear old servant back again; and, as soon as you can, you
will come."
"No, no; no, no; it is impossible," cried the woman, with a shudder. "I
could not return."
"You think so now; but papa will consent, and I shall insist, too. But
there will be no need to insist. It will be like coming back home."
"No, I tell you," cried the woman excitedly; and it was as if a wild fit
of delirium had suddenly attacked her. "No, no, Isaac, darling, I
cannot, I dare not do this thing."
"My poor old nurse," said Claude affectionately; "we will not talk about
it now. You must wait, and think how it will be for the best."
"Be for the best!" she cried, in a wild strange way. "You do not know--
you do not know."
"Oh, yes; better than you do, I am sure. Come, I will leave you now.
Don't look so wildly at me. There, good-bye, dear old nurse--my dear
old nurse. Kiss me, as you used when I was quite a child, and try to
reconcile yourself to coming to us. It is fate."
Claude kissed her tenderly, and then, not daring to say more, she
hurried from the darkened room, to walk swiftly back, glad that the
loneliness of the cliff road enabled her to let tears have their free
course for a time.
Could she have seen the interior of the cottage, she would have stared
in wonder and dread, for, sobbing wildly and tearing at her breast, with
all the unbridled grief of one of her class, Sarah Woodham was walking
hurriedly to and fro, like some imprisoned creature trying to escape
from the bars which hemmed it in.
"His child,"--she cried,--"his poor, innocent child to draw me there.
What did she say? It is fate. Yes, it is fate; and we are but the
instruments to work His will."
She stopped, gazing wildly towards the inner chamber, pausing
irresolutely for a few moments before rushing in and flinging herself
upon her knees by the dead.
It was an hour after that she came tottering out, to stand by the chair
she had occupied, and by which she found a handkerchief Claude had
dropped; and, catching it up, she pressed it to her lips.
"His poor, innocent child to lead me there to execute judgment on the
evil doer. And I have prayed so hard--so hard--in vain--in vain. Yes,
she is right. We are but instruments; and it is my fate."
She stood with her hands pressed to her brow, as if to keep her
throbbing brain from bursting its bonds. Then a strangely-weird,
despairing look came across her darkening face, and she let herself
sink, as if it were vain to combat more; and there was a terrible
silence in the place, as she seemed to be looking forward into the
future.
Once again she broke that silence as the turn of her thoughts was made
manifest, but her voice sounded harsh and broken, as if the words would
hardly come.
"His innocent child--the girl I loved as if she had been my own flesh
and blood;" and her voice rose to a wail. Then, after a few moments'
silence: "Yes, I must go. I swore to the dead, and the way is opened
now. It is my fate."
Volume One, Chapter IX.