A STARTLING STORY
If hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender it here; I do as truly suffer
As e’er I did commit.
SHAKESPEARE.
Great was the wonder in the drawing-room when Dr. Willet entered, and
after a sweeping bow that took in the whole circle, went straight up to
Leonidas Bruce and said:
“I am really sorry to break up this ‘goodlie companie,’ but ‘necessity
has no law,’ and this particular case admits of no compromise. Mr.
Bruce, I am here to ask you, your wife, and this young lady, Miss
Emolyn, to come with me to the deathbed of my patient.”
“Who is it?” inquired the astonished man.
“Mrs. Ann Whitlock, the old woman whom I have been attending for the
last few weeks at the Wilderness Manor-house; the same one to whom I was
so suddenly called again this afternoon.”
“Oh, yes. Well, poor soul, if she is dying, I am sure I’m very sorry for
her; but I can’t help it. I don’t know her the least in the world. Why,
I have but just got home, you see; and I don’t know——”
“Oh, of course you don’t know anything at all about it; but your wife
and this young lady both know the old woman who sends for them to her
deathbed, and as they will not disregard her dying request, perhaps you
will elect to go with them. Your presence is desirable, but not
absolutely necessary.”
“Oh, of course I will go. Since these ladies were acquainted with the
poor old creature I can partly understand her desire to see them,” said
Leonidas Bruce good-naturedly.
“Then, as no time is to be lost, let me entreat the ladies to get ready
for their ride immediately. The carriage is ordered,” said the doctor.
Full of conjecture as to the cause of the summons, Mrs. Bruce arose,
drew Emolyn’s arm within her own, and left the drawing-room.
As the two women separated in the hall, the one to go to the parlor
chamber, the other to go to the attic, Mrs. Bruce noticed that Em.’s
eyes were full of tears.
“What! weeping, my love?” she exclaimed.
“Ah! she was very good to me. Always very good to me,” sighed the girl.
“‘But the angels weep when a babe is born,
And sing when an old man dies.’
You should not weep for the death of the aged, my dear. What can she
want with us, Em.? Ah! I understand how she may want you; but _me_? Long
ago she nursed my uncle, it is true, yet I scarcely ever knew her.”
“I think, dear lady, that, as she knows you have me, she only wishes to
see us both together, and perhaps commend me to your kindness. She
_need_ not do that, of course, but she was always _very_ good to me.”
“That is it!” exclaimed the lady, and then she hurried off to her room,
while Em. ran up to the attic.
In the meantime the ladies left in the drawing-room, Mrs. Catherine
Bruce, and Miss Belinda Warde, came around to Dr. Willet for an
explanation of this sudden night summons.
The good physician parried their questions as politely as he could, and
was still evading them when the door opened and Commodore Bruce came in,
all booted and spurred for riding, and exclaimed:
“Well, doctor, I am ready, you see! As you have ridden so much to-day I
shall give you my seat in the carriage, old friend, and take your horse.
No, now! Not one word of objection! I will have it so. Besides, I have
ordered a second horse for Leonidas, so that I and my son may trot side
by side, as we used to do when I was younger and he was smaller,” added
the commodore as he drew on his gloves.
As he spoke Leonidas Bruce, equipped for riding, accompanied by his
cousin, Ronald, re-entered the room.
The two ladies soon followed—Mrs. Leonidas Bruce in the dress she had
worn on her short journey from Edengarden to The Breezes, and Em. in her
boat cloak and hood.
“Well, we are all ready, I believe?” inquired the doctor.
The other members of the party assented, and after bidding good-evening
to the three ladies and the one gentleman left behind, they went out the
front door to the place where the carriage and the saddle horses were
awaiting them.
Dr. Willet handed the two ladies into the carriage, then followed and
took his seat at their side.
Leonidas Bruce assisted his father to mount his horse, then leaped into
his own saddle and rode after the carriage, which had already started.
The commodore was soon by his son’s side.
And so they wound down the road leading down the mountainside and
through the forest to the back road, and thence to the Wilderness
Manor-house.
There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the innumerable
stars shone with a sparkling brilliancy that compensated for her
absence.
The three passengers in the carriage spoke but little. Dr. Willet went
to sleep. It was very rude of him to do so, but he was aged and tired.
Mrs. Leonidas Bruce was absorbed in reverie. Em. was silently weeping
and stealthily wiping away her tears. Em. had scarcely realized how much
she loved the uncouth old creature who had been her nurse and companion
all her young life and until within a few weeks. Yet these were tears of
tender compassion rather than of bitter sorrow; tears, too, which Em.’s
cheerful faith taught her were more natural than rational, since “death
is but an orderly step in life,” and to die out of this sphere is to be
born in a higher one.
The two men enjoyed _their_ ride. Neither of them took any more than a
kindly interest in the dying woman they were going to see, so they
talked of everything else than of her—of Lonny’s shipwreck, and rescue,
and capture; of his experiences in the long years of his captivity; of
his flight and escape, and his voyage home on the French ship, etc.,
etc., etc.
All these adventures Lonny had already related. But now, at his father’s
request, he went over them again, as he was destined many times to
repeat them at intervals for his father, his father’s friends and—their
friends, for many years to come.
It was ten o’clock when they drew near a pile of dark buildings in the
valley below them, which they recognized as the Wilderness Manor.
In a few minutes they were at the gates opening into the back courtyard
under the shadow of the mountain, this being the nearer approach to the
house from the direction of The Breezes.
Here John Palmer and his boys waited to receive them.
John led the party up to the house, while the boys took away the horses
to the rear stables.
At the door of the house Susan Palmer received her late visitors.
She had been prepared by Dr. Willet, who had informed her of the
unexpected return of the long missing Leonidas Bruce, so she showed no
surprise at his appearance, and under the serious circumstances gave him
only the general welcome extended to the whole party.
“Walk in here, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, opening the door of a
well-warmed and lighted parlor, where a fine fire of hickory logs blazed
in the broad fireplace, and two tall “mold” candles, in taller brass
candlesticks, stood on the high mantel-shelf.
“Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, while I take Em. up to
see the poor soul, for so she desired me to do first of all,” added Mrs.
Palmer as she placed chairs near the fire for her guests.
When they were seated she beckoned Em., who arose to follow her, then
bowed to her guests, and left the room.
As soon as they reached the hall outside Susan Palmer astonished Em. by
suddenly throwing her arms around the girl’s neck, bursting into tears,
and exclaiming:
“Oh! my child, you’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same!
You’ll love us all the same!”
“Dear mother, what is the matter?” inquired the girl in alarm.
“Oh! Em., say you will! Say you will!”
“Will _what_? I’ll do _all_ you wish, dear mother, only tell me _what_!”
exclaimed the frightened girl.
“Love us just as much! Just as much, Em.! Oh, just as much!” sobbed the
woman.
“My own dear mother,” murmured Em., caressing and soothing the excited
creature, although she herself was frightened half out of her senses at
the agitation she could not comprehend—“my own dear mother, I love you
and shall always love you. Compose yourself. Do not doubt me. Is it
because Commodore Bruce has consented that his nephew shall marry me?
Have you already heard that, and do you think it could make any
difference in my love for you? It could not, dear mother, not one bit!”
“Oh! no, Em., no! It isn’t _that_. I’m not such a fool as to take on so
about _that_. Of course I knew you would marry some time. Besides, I
hadn’t even heard of it. Oh! no, Em., it is not that! It is worse than
that. Heaven forgive me, it is better than that. No, it is _worse_. Oh,
Em.! Em.! Em.!”
And Susan Palmer fell to weeping.
“My own dear, dear mother, I never knew you to be so nervous in my life
before. Surely you are not well. Oh, what _is_ the matter?” exclaimed
the girl, her alarm rising to terror.
“You’ll hear soon enough, Em.! You’ll hear soon enough! But oh, do
promise me you’ll love us all the same, all the same, whatever you
hear!” said Susan Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh as she released the
girl and wiped her own eyes.
“Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear?”
“No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh! you will still call me
‘mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good John, who is so fond of you,
‘father’—won’t you, Em.?” she pleaded.
Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent dismay—thinking of
approaching illness, fever, delirium.
“You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa and mamma because
children in high life call their parents that. But you will call me and
poor old John plain mother and father as you always did—won’t you, Em.?”
“She is distressing herself about my possible marriage and my future
mother and father-in-law,” thought Em.; and then she answered earnestly:
“_Always_, dear mother. Always, believe me! I will never call any one
else father or mother but you and father!”
“That’s my loving heart! That’s my sweet, loving heart! You can call
them ‘papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you know, and they’ll like that just as well,
and even better, for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so
on. But oh, Em!”—with another burst of emotion—“it is just as if you
were dead to us! Just as if you were dead! I wish—oh, I do wish that we
had taught you to call us ‘daddy’ and ‘mammy,’ for then I should know
you would never call any fine lady or gentleman _that_. Now, come
upstairs, child, for I have kept you down here too long already. But oh,
Em.! It is just like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let
you go now! We part now, we will never meet again in the same way, Em.,”
she exclaimed, as she began slowly to climb the stairs, followed closely
by the troubled and bewildered girl.
Not a word more was spoken between them until they reached the attic
landing, when Mrs. Palmer opened the door of the sick-room and said:
“Go in there, Em.! Go in alone! Oh! my Lord! It is like lowering you
into the grave! We will meet again! But not the same! Oh, nevermore the
same.” She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and gently closed
the door after her.
The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a large upper room. It
was now in obscurity, the smoldering hardwood fire in the fireplace, and
the rustic lamp on the mantel-shelf giving but little light.
Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the upper end of the
room, where Dr. Willet had already taken his place, and old Monica was
waiting. The latter gave way as Em. approached the bed.
The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, with her wasted face
level on the pillow, and her skeleton hands folded on her breast.
“Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet.
“Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over her.
The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eyes.
“Aunty Whitlock, how do you do?” inquired Em.
The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to articulate, and
finally said, in an imperfect way:
“I—am—getting—well—fast.”
“Is she delirious?” inquired Em., in a whisper and with a startled look
at the doctor.
“Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that she is going—dying.
Hush! She is trying to speak to you again. Bend low—bend your ear to her
lips.”
The girl obeyed.
“Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the listener could
scarcely recognize her own name. “Em., my child.”
“Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening—I hear.”
“Have I been—good to you—my dear?” she asked, in tones so faint and
muffled that Em. scarcely gathered their meaning, but rather divined it,
as she answered:
“Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whitlock.”
“I—_did_—save—your life.”
“Yes, I know you did, dear aunty! Mother has often told me you did.”
A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying woman, and her lips
writhed in their efforts to utter the next words, which Em. bent her ear
and strained her sense to hear.
“Yes—but not in that way—not as she thinks—did I save your life.”
There was silence and quick breathing for a few minutes, and then, with
an effort, she resumed:
“When—you know all—forgive—because—I _did_ save your life.”
Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her fresh, living cheek
against the faded and dying one.
“Now, doctor!” panted the woman.
Dr. Willet approached and bent over her.
“Let them come—quick—I’m passing.”
The doctor administered a restorative, and then left the room to bring
the Bruces to the bedside of the fast sinking woman.
Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold hands.
In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, bearing two lighted
candles in his hand, and followed by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and
Emolyn and John and Susan Palmer.
The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and placed the two candles
upon it, and laid a folded paper beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn
Bruce to appear.
The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up to the bedside,
closely followed by her husband.
The lady bent over the dying woman, saying:
“I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whitlock. Do you know me?”
“You are Emolyn Wyndeworth—I saved your child’s life—I was always good
to her—she will tell you so herself.”
“What does she mean?” inquired Leonidas, who had caught only one or two
words of this faintly muttered speech.
Emolyn shook her head in doubt, and Dr. Willet said:
“Hush! You will know soon. Let me say a few words. When I came to this
woman this afternoon she made a startling confession to me in the
presence of John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down from her
dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it might have been too late.
I took her mark and the signatures of the two Palmers as witnesses. I
wish to have her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under
oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the oath?”
The old commodore, much wondering what he should hear next, said:
“Will you read it to her first?”
“No, there will not be time. I will read it afterwards.”
“Lift her up, then, somebody.”
John Palmer, being the strongest “body” present, went to the head of the
bed, lifted the dying woman to a sitting posture, and supported her in
his firm arms, with her back resting against his chest.
“This is her written statement,” said Dr. Willet, placing the folded
paper in the hands of the commodore.
“Make—haste,” panted the woman, with difficulty.
The doctor poured out and administered a stimulant, which partially
revived her.
“Do you know what you are about to do?” inquired the commodore.
“Yes—swear to—the truth of—my statement,” gasped the woman.
Commodore Bruce, in his capacity of magistrate, then administered the
oath and exhibited the written statement with its signatures, which she
recognized and acknowledged under oath.
“There! That will do! This necessary disturbance has shaken the last
sands of her life. Leave her now to repose, and follow me down to the
drawing-room, where I will read to you all this strange confession,”
said the doctor.
John Palmer left his perch on the head of the bed and gently lowered the
head of the dying woman to the pillow.
Susan tenderly adjusted the covering around her, and beckoned old Monica
to come and resume her watch by the bed.
Dr. Willet took up the two lighted candles and led the way from the
room, leaving the place in the twilight shadow and stillness best fitted
for the sufferer.
The whole party repaired to the drawing-room, and seated themselves
around the large circular center-table upon which Dr. Willet had placed
the candles and the document.
When the little bustle, incident upon this movement, subsided, the
doctor took up the paper and began to read the statement aloud to his
almost breathless audience.
And then and there the astonished family of Commodore Bruce learned a
secret they had never even suspected before, though doubtless my
intelligent readers have divined it long ago.
The attested statement of the dying woman showed how she, Ann Whitlock,
sick-nurse, while in the employment of Mrs. Malvina Warde, at Green
Point, being tempted of the devil, did appropriate to herself certain
valuable jewels belonging to the family, and being caught in the act by
Mrs. Warde, did thenceforward fall, body and soul, into the power of
that lady, who, by threats of prosecution and imprisonment did compel
her, Ann Whitlock, to commit great sins. How, to effect her purpose,
Mrs. Warde procured for Ann Whitlock, the position of sick-nurse in the
Women’s Hospital in the city. How, on the thirtieth of April, 18—, she,
Ann Whitlock, being driven of the devil in the shape of Malvina,
procured certain drugs to be administered to Emolyn Wyndeworth, then
living at Green Point, which drugs hastened the illness of that lady.
How, on the morning of the first of May, while it was yet dark, and the
household all in bed, she, being secretly admitted by Mrs. Warde to the
sick chamber of Emolyn Wyndeworth, had, with the assistance of Malvina
Warde, stolen away the new-born, healthy infant daughter of Emolyn
Wyndeworth, and secretly conveyed it to the Women’s Hospital, and
adroitly changed it for the still-born child of Susan Palmer, a patient
in the ward then under her care. How, leaving the living infant by the
sleeping woman, she had brought back the dead one and laid it on the bed
with Emolyn Wyndeworth. How ever since that fatal night she had so
suffered with remorse that nothing but the one thought that Mrs. Warde
would certainly have destroyed the living child, if she herself had not
substituted the dead one for it, could bring her any comfort; but that
she compensated the child for the loss of its real mother by giving her
to the best woman she knew in the world, and by being as good to her as
she possibly could be. Finally, that she had meant to tell the truth on
her deathbed, when she should be out of the power of her demoniac
mistress.
That was all. Fortunately not a word had been said about the trial.