For a moment I did not know what to answer. But when this atrocious
woman walked past me into the parlour, and threw herself into my dead
father’s chair, I followed her, and felt compelled to speak.
“I do not understand what you mean by talking in this way,” I said.
“Mrs. Vere is the only mistress in this house, and--”
“Well, young man, and suppose _I_ am Mrs. Vere!”
“I can suppose no such thing. You cannot know what you are talking
about. My mother--”
“_Your mother!_ And pray, what may your name be and your age?”
“Charles Vere; and I was eighteen last birthday,” I said, feeling
compelled, I knew not by what secret agency, to reply.
“Just so! I thought as much! Well, I am Mrs. Vere, and I am your
mother!”
“_My mother!_ You must be mad, or drunk! How dare you insult the dead
man in his coffin upstairs. My mother! Why, she died years ago, before
I can remember.”
“Did she? That’s the fine tale madam, who’s been taking my place here
all this time has told you, I suppose. But I’ll be even with her yet.
I’m your father’s widow, and all he’s left behind him belongs to me,
and she’ll be out of this house before another hour’s over her head,
or my name’s not Jane Vere!”
“You lie!” I exclaimed passionately. This tipsy, dissipated,
coarse-looking creature, the woman who bore me, and whom I had
believed to be lying in her grave for sixteen years and more. Was it
wonderful that at the first blush my mind utterly refused to credit
it? The angry accusation I have recorded had barely left my lips, when
I looked up and saw _my mother_--the woman who had come as an angel of
light into my father’s darkened home, and watched over me with the
tenderest affection since--standing on the threshold, pale and
peaceful in her mourning garb, as the Spirit of Death itself.
“Mother! say it is not true,” I cried as I turned towards her.
“Oh, Charlie, my darling boy! my brave, good son! Be quiet! bear it
like a man; but it _is_ true!”
“This--this woman was my father’s _wife!_”
“She was!”
“And _you_, mother!” I exclaimed in agony.
“I was only the woman that he loved, Charlie,” she answered, with
downcast eyes. “You must think no higher of me than that!”
“I think the very highest of you that I can. You were my father’s
loving companion and friend for years: you saved his life and his
reason! You were _his_ true, true wife, and _my_ mother. I shall never
think of you in any lower light.”
My emotion had found vent in tears by that time. It was all so new and
so horrible to believe, and my mother’s hand rested fondly on my bowed
head.
Then that other woman, whose existence I can never recall without a
shudder, seized her hateful opportunity, and levelled the most
virulent abuse at my poor martyr mother’s head. Words, such as I had
never heard from a female before, rained thickly from her lips, until
I lost sight of my own grief in my indignation at the shower of
inuendoes which were being hurled at the person dearest to me of all
the world.
“Be silent,” I said in a loud authoritative voice. “Were you twenty
times my mother I would not permit you to speak as you are speaking
now. If it is true that you were my father’s wife, why were you not in
your proper place, instead of leaving your lawful duties to another?”
“Oh! madam here can answer that question better than myself. She knows
well enough there was no room left for me where she was.”
“Untrue!” murmured my mother, but without any anger. “I would have
shielded your character from your boy’s censure, as I have done for so
long, but justice to the dead compels me to speak. You left this home
desolate for many miserable years before I entered it. You deserted
your child in his infancy, but your husband had so good and forgiving
a heart that, when you cried to him for pardon, he took you back again
and condoned your great offence, and therefore, when you left him a
second time, the law contained no remedy for his wrong. He was
compelled to live on--alone--dishonoured and comfortless, whilst
you--you can best tell your son what your life has been since.”
“Anyway I am Mrs. Vere,” retorted the other, “and my husband has died
intestate, and his property belongs to me, so I’ll thank you to take
your brat, and clear out of my house before the sun goes down.”
“Oh! mother, this is infamous! It can never be!”
“It _must_ be, Charlie! It is the law. I knew all this when I
consented to come here as your father’s wife. He never deceived me for
a single moment; and if I have any regret that he put off providing
against this contingency until it was too late, it is only for fear
lest he should be regretting it also. But, my dear, _dear_ love!” she
added in a lower tone, “I acquit you of this as of all things. I know
your great love for me never failed, and I am content!”
“I will not believe it without further proof!” I exclaimed. “I will
send Ellen at once for the solicitor. I cannot leave you alone with
this horrid woman!”
“Hush, Charlie! she is your mother.”
“I will not acknowledge it. _You_ are the only mother I have ever
had--the only mother I ever will have to my life’s end.”
Mr. Chorberry, the solicitor, came without delay, but he could give me
no comfort. My poor father, by that strange indifference which has
been the curse of so many, had put off making his will until it was
too late, by reason of which he had left the one to whom he owed most
in the world, the woman who had sacrificed friends and reputation to
spend her life in a dull country home, administering to his pleasures,
entirely dependant on her own resources for support--whilst the
faithless, drunken creature he had the misfortune to be still chained
to, walked in as the lawful wife, and claimed her share of the
property. There was only one drop of balm in his decision. I, as my
father’s son, shared what he had left behind him, but my angel mother
and dear baby-sister were cast upon the world to shift for themselves.
And this was the law.
Oh, father! did your spirit look down from whichever sphere it had
been translated to, and witness this?
“But, surely,” I said to Chorberry, “there can be no necessity for my
mother leaving Lilyfields before the funeral?”
“Of course there is no necessity; but do you think it advisable, under
the circumstances, that she should remain? Mrs. Vere has the legal
power to enforce her departure, and I am afraid will not be slow to
use it.”
My mother evidently was of one mind with him, for in an incredibly
short space of time she had packed her belongings. Mrs. Vere, standing
over her meanwhile to see she did not purloin anything from the house,
and was waiting in the hall with little Violet, ready to go to the
house of the clergyman’s wife, who, to her honour, having heard how
matters stood at Lilyfields, had promptly sent my mother an invitation
to the vicarage for the night.
“Are you ready, dear mother?” I said sadly, as I joined her in the
hall, and drew her arm within my own.
“Well, Mr. Charles, I suppose I shall see you back again here before
long?” screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Vere down the staircase.