Just after breakfast one fine spring morning in 1837, an advertisement
in the _Times_ for a curate caught and fixed my attention. The salary
was sufficiently remunerative for a bachelor, and the parish, as I
personally knew, one of the most pleasantly situated in all
Somersetshire. Having said that, the reader will readily understand
that it could not have been a hundred miles from Taunton. I instantly
wrote, enclosing testimonials, with which the Rev. Mr Townley, the
rector, was so entirely satisfied, that the return-post brought me a
positive engagement, unclogged with the slightest objection to one or
two subsidiary items I had stipulated for, and accompanied by an
invitation to make the rectory my home till I could conveniently suit
myself elsewhere. This was both kind and handsome; and the next day
but one I took coach, with a light heart, for my new destination. It
thus happened that I became acquainted, and in some degree mixed up,
with the train of events it is my present purpose to relate.
The rector I found to be a stout, portly gentleman, whose years
already reached to between sixty and seventy. So many winters,
although they had plentifully besprinkled his hair with gray, shone
out with ruddy brightness in his still handsome face, and keen,
kindly, bright-hazel eyes; and his voice, hearty and ringing, had not
as yet one quaver of age in it. I met him at breakfast on the morning
after my arrival, and his reception of me was most friendly. We had
spoken together but for a few minutes, when one of the French windows,
that led from the breakfast-room into a shrubbery and flower-garden,
gently opened and admitted a lady, just then, as I afterwards learned,
in her nineteenth spring. I use this term almost unconsciously, for I
cannot even now, in the glowing summer of her life, dissociate her
image from that season of youth and joyousness. She was introduced to
me, with old-fashioned simplicity, as 'My grand-daughter, Agnes
Townley.' It is difficult to look at beauty through other men's eyes,
and, in the present instance, I feel that I should fail miserably in
the endeavour to stamp upon this blank, dead paper, any adequate idea
of the fresh loveliness, the rose-bud beauty of that young girl. I
will merely say, that her perfectly Grecian head, wreathed with wavy
_bandeaux_ of bright hair, undulating with golden light, vividly
brought to my mind Raphael's halo-tinted portraitures of the
Virgin--with this difference, that in place of the holy calm and
resignation of the painting, there was in Agnes Townley a sparkling
youth and life, that even amidst the heat and glare of a crowded
ball-room or of a theatre, irresistibly suggested and recalled the
freshness and perfume of the morning--of a cloudless, rosy morning of
May. And, far higher charm than feature-beauty, however exquisite, a
sweetness of disposition, a kind gentleness of mind and temper, was
evidenced in every line of her face, in every accent of the
low-pitched, silver voice, that breathed through lips made only to
smile.
Let me own, that I was greatly struck by so remarkable a combination
of rare endowments; and this, I think, the sharp-eyed rector must have
perceived, or he might not perhaps have been so immediately
communicative with respect to the near prospects of his idolised
grandchild, as he was the moment the young lady, after presiding at
the breakfast-table, had withdrawn.
'We shall have gay doings, Mr Tyrrel, at the rectory shortly,' he
said. 'Next Monday three weeks will, with the blessing of God, be
Agnes Townley's wedding-day.'
'Wedding-day!'
'Yes,' rejoined the rector, turning towards and examining some flowers
which Miss Townley had brought in and placed on the table. 'Yes, it
has been for some time settled that Agnes shall on that day be united
in holy wedlock to Mr Arbuthnot.'
'Mr Arbuthnot of Elm Park?'
'A great match, is it not, in a worldly point of view?' replied Mr
Townley, with a pleasant smile at the tone of my exclamation. 'And
much better than that: Robert Arbuthnot is a young man of a high and
noble nature, as well as devotedly attached to Agnes. He will, I doubt
not, prove in every respect a husband deserving and worthy of her; and
that from the lips of a doting old grandpapa must be esteemed high
praise. You will see him presently.'
I did see him often, and quite agreed in the rector's estimate of his
future grandson-in-law. I have not frequently seen a finer-looking
young man--his age was twenty-six; and certainly one of a more
honourable and kindly spirit, of a more genial temper than he, has
never come within my observation. He had drawn a great prize in the
matrimonial lottery, and, I felt, deserved his high fortune.
They were married at the time agreed upon, and the day was kept not
only at Elm Park, and in its neighbourhood, but throughout 'our'
parish, as a general holiday. And, strangely enough--at least I have
never met with another instance of the kind--it was held by our entire
female community, high as well as low, that the match was a perfectly
equal one, notwithstanding that wealth and high worldly position were
entirely on the bridegroom's side. In fact, that nobody less in the
social scale than the representative of an old territorial family
ought, in the nature of things, to have aspired to the hand of Agnes
Townley, appeared to have been a foregone conclusion with everybody.
This will give the reader a truer and more vivid impression of the
bride, than any words or colours I might use.
The days, weeks, months of wedded life flew over Mr and Mrs Arbuthnot
without a cloud, save a few dark but transitory ones which I saw now
and then flit over the husband's countenance as the time when he
should become a father drew near, and came to be more and more spoken
of. 'I should not survive her,' said Mr Arbuthnot, one day in reply to
a chance observation of the rector's, 'nor indeed desire to do so.'
The gray-headed man seized and warmly pressed the husband's hand, and
tears of sympathy filled his eyes; yet did he, nevertheless, as in
duty bound, utter grave words on the sinfulness of despair under any
circumstances, and the duty, in all trials, however heavy, of patient
submission to the will of God. But the venerable gentleman spoke in a
hoarse and broken voice, and it was easy to see he _felt_ with Mr
Arbuthnot that the reality of an event, the bare possibility of which
shook them so terribly, were a cross too heavy for human strength to
bear and live.
It was of course decided that the expected heir or heiress should be
intrusted to a wet-nurse, and a Mrs Danby, the wife of a miller living
not very far from the rectory, was engaged for that purpose. I had
frequently seen the woman; and her name, as the rector and I were one
evening gossipping over our tea, on some subject or other that I
forget, came up.
'A likely person,' I remarked; 'healthy, very good-looking, and one
might make oath, a true-hearted creature. But there is withal a
timidity, a frightenedness in her manner at times which, if I may
hazard a perhaps uncharitable conjecture, speaks ill for that smart
husband of hers.'
'You have hit the mark precisely, my dear sir. Danby is a sorry
fellow, and a domestic tyrant to boot. His wife, who is really a good,
but meek-hearted person, lived with us once. How old do you suppose
her to be?'
'Five-and-twenty perhaps.'
'Six years more than that. She has a son of the name of Harper by a
former marriage, who is in his tenth year. Anne wasn't a widow long.
Danby was caught by her good looks, and she by the bait of a
well-provided home. Unless, however, her husband gives up his corn
speculations, she will not, I think, have that much longer.'
'Corn speculations! Surely Danby has no means adequate to indulgence
in such a game as that?'
'Not he. But about two years ago he bought, on credit, I believe, a
considerable quantity of wheat, and prices happening to fly suddenly
up just then, he made a large profit. This has quite turned his head,
which, by the by, was never, as Cockneys say, quite rightly screwed
on.' The announcement of a visitor interrupted anything further the
rector might have had to say, and I soon afterwards went home.
A sad accident occurred about a month subsequent to the foregoing
conversation. The rector was out riding upon a usually quiet horse,
which all at once took it into its head to shy at a scarecrow it must
have seen a score of times, and thereby threw its rider. Help was
fortunately at hand, and the reverend gentleman was instantly conveyed
home, when it was found that his left thigh was broken. Thanks,
however, to his temperate habits, it was before long authoritatively
pronounced that, although it would be a considerable time before he
was released from confinement, it was not probable that the lusty
winter of his life would be shortened by what had happened.
Unfortunately, the accident threatened to have evil consequences in
another quarter. Immediately after it occurred, one Matthews, a busy,
thick-headed lout of a butcher, rode furiously off to Elm Park with
the news. Mrs Arbuthnot, who daily looked to be confined, was walking
with her husband upon the lawn in front of the house, when the great
burly blockhead rode up, and blurted out that the rector had been
thrown from his horse, and it was feared killed!
The shock of such an announcement was of course overwhelming. A few
hours afterwards, Mrs Arbuthnot gave birth to a healthy male-child;
but the young mother's life, assailed by fever, was for many days
utterly despaired of--for weeks held to tremble so evenly in the
balance, that the slightest adverse circumstance might in a moment
turn the scale deathward. At length the black horizon that seemed to
encompass us so hopelessly, lightened, and afforded the lover-husband
a glimpse and hope of his vanished and well-nigh despaired of Eden.
The promise was fulfilled. I was in the library with Mr Arbuthnot
awaiting the physician's morning report, very anxiously expected at
the rectory, when Dr Lindley entered the apartment in evidently
cheerful mood.
'You have been causelessly alarmed,' he said. 'There is no fear
whatever of a relapse. Weakness only remains, and that we shall
slowly, perhaps, but certainly, remove.'
A gleam of lightning seemed to flash over Mr Arbuthnot's expressive
countenance. 'Blessed be God!' he exclaimed. 'And how,' he added,
'shall we manage respecting the child? She asks for it incessantly.'
Mr Arbuthnot's infant son, I should state, had been consigned
immediately after its birth to the care of Mrs Danby, who had herself
been confined, also with a boy, about a fortnight previously.
Scarlatina being prevalent in the neighbourhood, Mrs Danby was hurried
away with the two children to a place near Bath, almost before she was
able to bear the journey. Mr Arbuthnot had not left his wife for an
hour, and consequently had only seen his child for a few minutes just
after it was born.
'With respect to the child,' replied Dr Lindley, 'I am of opinion that
Mrs Arbuthnot may see it in a day or two. Say the third day from this,
if all goes well. I think we may venture so far; but I will be
present, for any untoward agitation might be perhaps instantly fatal.'
This point provisionally settled, we all three went our several ways:
I to cheer the still suffering rector with the good news.
The next day but one, Mr Arbuthnot was in exuberant spirits. 'Dr
Lindley's report is even more favourable than we had anticipated,' he
said; 'and I start to-morrow morning, to bring Mrs Danby and the
child'----The postman's subdued but unmistakable knock interrupted
him. 'The nurse,' he added, 'is very attentive and punctual. She
writes almost every day.' A servant entered with a salver heaped with
letters. Mr Arbuthnot tossed them over eagerly, and seizing one, after
glancing at the post-mark, tore it eagerly open, muttering as
he did so: 'It is not the usual handwriting; but from her, no
doubt'----Merciful God!' I impulsively exclaimed, as I suddenly lifted
my eyes to his. 'What is the matter?' A mortal pallor had spread over
Mr Arbuthnot's before animated features, and he was glaring at the
letter in his hand as if a basilisk had suddenly confronted him.
Another moment, and the muscles of his frame appeared to give way
suddenly, and he dropped heavily into the easy-chair from which he had
risen to take the letters. I was terribly alarmed, and first loosening
his neckerchief, for he seemed choking, I said: 'Let me call some
one;' and I turned to reach the bell, when he instantly seized my
arms, and held me with a grip of iron. 'No--no--no!' he hoarsely
gasped; 'water--water!' There was fortunately some on a side-table. I
handed it to him, and he drank eagerly. It appeared to revive him a
little. He thrust the crumpled letter into his pocket, and said in a
low, quick whisper: 'There is some one coming! Not a word,
remember--not a word!' At the same time, he wheeled his chair half
round, so that his back should be towards the servant we heard
approaching.
'I am sent, sir,' said Mrs Arbuthnot's maid, 'to ask if the post has
arrived.'
'Yes,' replied Mr Arbuthnot, with wonderful mastery of his voice.
'Tell your mistress I shall be with her almost immediately, and that
her--her son is quite well.'
'Mr Tyrrel,' he continued, as soon as the servant was out of hearing,
'there is, I think, a liqueur-stand on the sideboard in the large
dining-room. Would you have the kindness to bring it me,
unobserved--mind that--unobserved by any one?'
I did as he requested; and the instant I placed the liqueur-frame
before him, he seized the brandy _carafe_, and drank with fierce
eagerness. 'For goodness' sake,' I exclaimed, 'consider what you are
about, Mr Arbuthnot: you will make yourself ill.'
'No, no,' he answered, after finishing his draught, 'It seems scarcely
stronger than water. But I--I am better now. It was a sudden spasm of
the heart; that's all. The letter,' he added, after a long and painful
pause, during which he eyed me, I thought, with a kind of
suspicion--'the letter you saw me open just now, comes from a
relative, an aunt, who is ill, very ill, and wishes to see me
instantly. You understand?'
I _did_ understand, or at least I feared that I did too well. I,
however, bowed acquiescence; and he presently rose from his chair, and
strode about the apartment in great agitation, until his wife's
bedroom bell rang. He then stopped suddenly short, shook himself, and
looked anxiously at the reflection of his flushed and varying
countenance in the magnificent chimney-glass.
'I do not look, I think--or, at least shall not, in a darkened
room--odder, more out of the way--that is, more agitated--than one
might, that one _must_ appear, after hearing of the dangerous illness
of--of--an aunt?'
'You look better, sir, than you did awhile since.'
'Yes, yes; much better, much better. I am glad to hear you say so.
That was my wife's bell. She is anxious, no doubt, to see me.'
He left the apartment; was gone perhaps ten minutes; and when he
returned, was a thought less nervous than before. I rose to go. 'Give
my respects,' he said, 'to the good rector; and as an especial
favour,' he added, with strong emphasis, 'let me ask of you not to
mention to a living soul that you saw me so unmanned as I was just
now; that I swallowed brandy. It would appear so strange, so weak, so
ridiculous.'
I promised not to do so, and almost immediately left the house, very
painfully affected. His son was, I concluded, either dead or dying,
and he was thus bewilderedly casting about for means of keeping the
terrible, perhaps fatal tidings from his wife. I afterwards heard that
he left Elm Park in a postchaise, about two hours after I came away,
unattended by a single servant!
He was gone three clear days only, at the end of which he returned
with Mrs Danby and--his son--in florid health, too, and one of the
finest babies of its age--about nine weeks only--I had ever seen. Thus
vanished the air-drawn Doubting Castle and Giant Despair which I had
so hastily conjured up! The cause assigned by Mr Arbuthnot for the
agitation I had witnessed, was doubtless the true one; and yet, and
the thought haunted me for months, years afterwards, he opened only
_one_ letter that morning, and had sent a message to his wife that the
child was well!
Mrs Danby remained at the Park till the little Robert was weaned, and
was then dismissed very munificently rewarded. Year after year rolled
away without bringing Mr and Mrs Arbuthnot any additional little ones,
and no one, therefore, could feel surprised at the enthusiastic love
of the delighted mother for her handsome, nobly-promising boy. But
that which did astonish me, though no one else, for it seemed that I
alone noticed it, was a strange defect of character which began to
develop itself in Mr Arbuthnot. He was positively jealous of his
wife's affection for their own child! Many and many a time have I
remarked, when he thought himself unobserved, an expression of intense
pain flash from his fine, expressive eyes, at any more than usually
fervent manifestation of the young mother's gushing love for her first
and only born! It was altogether a mystery to me, and I as much as
possible forbore to dwell upon the subject.
Nine years passed away without bringing any material change to the
parties involved in this narrative, except those which time brings
ordinarily in his train. Young Robert Arbuthnot was a healthy, tall,
fine-looking lad of his age; and his great-grandpapa, the rector,
though not suffering under any actual physical or mental infirmity,
had reached a time of life when the announcement that the golden bowl
is broken, or the silver cord is loosed, may indeed be quick and
sudden, but scarcely unexpected. Things had gone well, too, with the
nurse, Mrs Danby, and her husband; well, at least, after a fashion.
The speculative miller must have made good use of the gift to his wife
for her care of little Arbuthnot, for he had built a genteel house
near the mill, always rode a valuable horse, kept, it was said, a
capital table; and all this, as it seemed, by his clever speculations
in corn and flour, for the ordinary business of the mill was almost
entirely neglected. He had no children of his own, but he had
apparently taken, with much cordiality, to his step-son, a fine lad,
now about eighteen years of age. This greatly grieved the boy's
mother, who dreaded above all things that her son should contract the
evil, dissolute habits of his father-in-law. Latterly, she had become
extremely solicitous to procure the lad a permanent situation abroad,
and this Mr Arbuthnot had promised should be effected at the earliest
opportunity.
Thus stood affairs on the 16th of October 1846. Mr Arbuthnot was
temporarily absent in Ireland, where he possessed large property, and
was making personal inquiries as to the extent of the potato-rot, not
long before announced. The morning's post had brought a letter to his
wife, with the intelligence that he should reach home that very
evening; and as the rectory was on the direct road to Elm Park, and
her husband would be sure to pull up there, Mrs Arbuthnot came with
her son to pass the afternoon there, and in some slight degree
anticipate her husband's arrival.
About three o'clock, a chief-clerk of one of the Taunton banks rode up
in a gig to the rectory, and asked to see the Rev. Mr Townley, on
pressing and important business. He was ushered into the library,
where the rector and I were at the moment rather busily engaged. The
clerk said he had been to Elm Park, but not finding either Mr
Arbuthnot or his lady there, he had thought that perhaps the Rev. Mr
Townley might be able to pronounce upon the genuineness of a cheque
for L.300, purporting to be drawn on the Taunton Bank by Mr Arbuthnot,
and which Danby the miller had obtained cash for at Bath. He further
added, that the bank had refused payment, and detained the cheque,
believing it to be a forgery.
'A forgery!' exclaimed the rector, after merely glancing at the
document. 'No question that it is, and a very clumsily executed one,
too. Besides, Mr Arbuthnot is not yet returned from Ireland.'
This was sufficient; and the messenger, with many apologies for his
intrusion, withdrew, and hastened back to Taunton. We were still
talking over this sad affair, although some hours had elapsed since
the clerk's departure--in fact, candles had been brought in, and we
were every moment expecting Mr Arbuthnot--when the sound of a horse at
a hasty gallop was heard approaching, and presently the pale and
haggard face of Danby shot by the window at which the rector and
myself were standing. The gate-bell was rung almost immediately
afterwards, and but a brief interval passed before 'Mr Danby' was
announced to be in waiting. The servant had hardly gained the passage
with leave to shew him in, when the impatient visitor rushed rudely
into the room in a state of great, and it seemed angry excitement.
'What, sir, is the meaning of this ill-mannered intrusion?' demanded
the rector sternly.
'You have pronounced the cheque I paid away at Bath to be a forgery;
and the officers are, I am told, already at my heels. Mr Arbuthnot,
unfortunately, is not at home, and I am come, therefore, to seek
shelter with you.'
'Shelter with me, sir!' exclaimed the indignant rector, moving, as he
spoke, towards the bell. 'Out of my house you shall go this instant.'
The fellow placed his hand upon the reverend gentleman's arm, and
looked with his bloodshot eyes keenly in his face.
'Don't!' said Danby; 'don't, for the sake of yourself and yours!
Don't! I warn you: or, if you like the phrase better, don't, for the
sake of me and _mine_.'
'Yours, fellow! Your wife, whom you have so long held in cruel bondage
through her fears for her son, has at last shaken off that chain.
James Harper sailed two days ago from Portsmouth for Bombay. I sent
her the news two hours since.'
'Ha! Is that indeed so?' cried Danby, with an irrepressible start of
alarm. 'Why, then----But no matter: here, luckily, comes Mrs Arbuthnot
_and her son_. All's right! She will, I know, stand bail for me, and,
if need be, acknowledge the genuineness of her husband's cheque.'
The fellow's insolence was becoming unbearable, and I was about to
seize and thrust him forcibly from the apartment, when the sound of
wheels was heard outside. 'Hold! one moment,' he cried with fierce
vehemence. 'That is probably the officers: I must be brief, then, and
to the purpose. Pray, madam, do not leave the room for your own sake:
as for you, young sir, I _command_ you to remain!'
'What! what does he mean?' exclaimed Mrs Arbuthnot bewilderedly, and
at the same time clasping her son--who gazed on Danby with kindled
eyes, and angry boyish defiance--tightly to her side. Did the man's
strange words give form and significance to some dark, shadowy,
indistinct doubt that had previously haunted her at times? I judged
so. The rector appeared similarly confused and shaken, and had sunk
nerveless and terrified upon a sofa.
'You guess dimly, I see, at what I have to say,' resumed Danby with a
malignant sneer. 'Well, hear it, then, once for all, and then, if you
will, give me up to the officers. Some years ago,' he continued,
coldly and steadily--'some years ago, a woman, a nurse, was placed in
charge of two infant children, both boys: one of these was her own;
the other was the son of rich, proud parents. The woman's husband was
a gay, jolly fellow, who much preferred spending money to earning it,
and just then it happened that he was more than usually hard up. One
afternoon, on visiting his wife, who had removed to a distance, he
found that the rich man's child had sickened of the small-pox, and
that there was no chance of its recovery. A letter containing the sad
news was on a table, which he, the husband, took the liberty to open
and read. After some reflection, suggested by what he had heard of the
lady-mother's state of mind, he recopied the letter, for the sake of
embodying in it a certain suggestion. That letter was duly posted, and
the next day brought the rich man almost in a state of distraction;
but his chief and mastering terror was lest the mother of the already
dead infant should hear, in her then precarious state, of what had
happened. The tidings, he was sure, would kill her. Seeing this, the
cunning husband of the nurse suggested that, for the present, his--the
cunning one's--child might be taken to the lady as her own, and that
the truth could be revealed when she was strong enough to bear it. The
rich man fell into the artful trap, and that which the husband of the
nurse had speculated upon, came to pass even beyond his hopes. The
lady grew to idolise her fancied child--she has, fortunately, had no
other--and now, I think, it would really kill her to part with him.
The rich man could not find it in his heart to undeceive his
wife--every year it became more difficult, more impossible to do so;
and very generously, I must say, has he paid in purse for the
forbearance of the nurse's husband. Well now, then, to sum up: the
nurse was Mrs Danby; the rich, weak husband, Mr Arbuthnot; the
substituted child, that handsome boy--_my son!_'
A wild scream from Mrs Arbuthnot broke the dread silence which had
accompanied this frightful revelation, echoed by an agonised cry, half
tenderness, half rage, from her husband, who had entered the room
unobserved, and now clasped her passionately in his arms. The
carriage-wheels we had heard were his. It was long before I could
recall with calmness the tumult, terror, and confusion of that scene.
Mr Arbuthnot strove to bear his wife from the apartment, but she would
not be forced away, and kept imploring with frenzied vehemence that
Robert--that her boy should not be taken from her.
'I have no wish to do so--far from it,' said Danby with gleeful
exultation. 'Only folk must be reasonable, and not threaten their
friends with the hulks'----
'Give him anything, anything!' broke in the unhappy lady. 'O Robert!
Robert!' she added with a renewed burst of hysterical grief, 'how
could you deceive me so?'
'I have been punished, Agnes,' he answered in a husky, broken voice,
'for my well-intending but criminal weakness; cruelly punished by the
ever-present consciousness that this discovery must one day or other
be surely made. What do you want?' he after awhile added with
recovering firmness, addressing Danby.
'The acknowledgment of the little bit of paper in dispute, of course;
and say a genuine one to the same amount.'
'Yes, yes,' exclaimed Mrs Arbuthnot, still wildly sobbing, and holding
the terrified boy strained in her embrace, as if she feared he might
be wrenched from her by force. 'Anything--pay him anything!'
At this moment, chancing to look towards the door of the apartment, I
saw that it was partially opened, and that Danby's wife was listening
there. What might that mean? But what of helpful meaning in such a
case could it have?
'Be it so, love,' said Mr Arbuthnot soothingly. 'Danby, call to-morrow
at the Park. And now, begone at once.'
'I was thinking,' resumed the rascal with swelling audacity, 'that we
might as well at the same time come to some permanent arrangement upon
black and white. But never mind: I can always put the screw on;
unless, indeed, you get tired of the young gentleman, and in that
case, I doubt not, he will prove a dutiful and affectionate son----Ah,
devil! What do you here? Begone, or I'll murder you! Begone, do you
hear?'
His wife had entered, and silently confronted him. 'Your threats, evil
man,' replied the woman quietly, 'have no terrors for me now. My son
is beyond your reach. Oh, Mrs Arbuthnot,' she added, turning towards
and addressing that lady, 'believe not'----
Her husband sprang at her with the bound of a panther. 'Silence! Go
home, or I'll strangle'----His own utterance was arrested by the
fierce grasp of Mr Arbuthnot, who seized him by the throat, and hurled
him to the further end of the room. 'Speak on, woman; and quick!
quick! What have you to say?'
'That your son, dearest lady,' she answered, throwing herself at Mrs
Arbuthnot's feet, 'is as truly your own child as ever son born of
woman!'
That shout of half-fearful triumph seems even now as I write to ring
in my ears! I _felt_ that the woman's words were words of truth, but I
could not see distinctly: the room whirled round, and the lights
danced before my eyes, but I could hear through all the choking
ecstasy of the mother, and the fury of the baffled felon.
'The letter,' continued Mrs Danby, 'which my husband found and opened,
would have informed you, sir, of the swiftly approaching death of _my_
child, and that yours had been carefully kept beyond the reach of
contagion. The letter you received was written without my knowledge or
consent. True it is that, terrified by my husband's threats, and in
some measure reconciled to the wicked imposition by knowing that,
after all, the right child would be in his right place, I afterwards
lent myself to Danby's evil purposes. But I chiefly feared for my son,
whom I fully believed he would not have scrupled to make away with in
revenge for my exposing his profitable fraud. I have sinned; I can
hardly hope to be forgiven, but I have now told the sacred truth.'
All this was uttered by the repentant woman, but at the time it was
almost wholly unheard by those most interested in the statement. They
only comprehended that they were saved--that the child was theirs in
very truth. Great, abundant, but for the moment, bewildering joy! Mr
Arbuthnot--his beautiful young wife--her own true boy (how could she
for a moment have doubted that he was her own true boy!--you might
read that thought through all her tears, thickly as they fell)--the
aged and half-stunned rector, whilst yet Mrs Danby was speaking, were
exclaiming, sobbing in each other's arms, ay, and praising God too,
with broken voices and incoherent words it may be, but certainly with
fervent, pious, grateful hearts.
When we had time to look about us, it was found that the felon had
disappeared--escaped. It was well, perhaps, that he had; better, that
he has not been heard of since.