"Mother!"
There was no reply, and once again rose from the bed in the
prettily-furnished room the same word--"Mother!" The wild, appealing,
anguished cry of offspring to parent, seeming to ask for help--
protection--forgiveness--the tenderness of the mother-heart to its
young, and still there was no answer.
The speaker struggled up so that she rested on her elbow, the heavy dark
nut-brown hair fell in long clusters on her soft white neck and bosom;
her large hazel eyes looked wild and dilated; and her fair young face
deathly pale, as, with quivering white lips, she cried once more:
"Mother! Speak to me or I shall die."
"It would be better so," was the cold hard reply, and a lady who had
been gazing from the window turned slowly round to gaze full at the
first speaker, her handsome Spanish type of countenance looking
malignant as her dark eyes flashed, where she stood biting her full
sensuous nether lip, and glaring at the occupant of the bed.
"Mother!" was the anguished cry once more, as the girl sank back upon
her pillow.
"Yes," was the bitter reply. "You are a mother. God be thanked that
your father, who idolised his child, was not spared to see this day."
"Oh, mother, mother, have some pity--have some mercy upon me. Where am
I to seek it, if not from you?"
"From Heaven: for the world will show you none. Why should I? Shame
upon you that you should bring this curse upon my widowed life. The
coward!--the villain! Was not our simple quiet home, far away from the
busy world, to be held sacred, that he must seek us out and cast such a
blight upon it!"
"Oh, hush, mother!" wailed the girl. "I love him--I love him."
"Love him! Idiot! Baby! To be led away by the smooth words of the
first soft-spoken villain you meet."
"You shall not call him villain, mamma," cried the girl passionately.
"He loves me, and I am to be his wife."
The girl flashed up for a moment with anger, but only to lie back the
next instant faint and with half-closed eyes.
"His wife! Are you such a fool that you believe this?" cried the elder
woman bitterly. "His wife! There, cast aside that shadow at once, for
it is a delusion."
"No, no, mother, dear mother, he has promised me that I shall be his
wife, and I believe him."
"Yes," said the mother, "as thousands of daughters of Eve have believed
before. There, cast away that thought, poor fool, and think now of
hiding your sin from the world which will shun you as if you had the
plague."
"Mother!" cried the girl piteously.
"Don't talk to me!" cried the woman fiercely, and she began to pace the
room; tall, swarthy, and handsome for her years, her mobile countenance
betraying the workings of the passionate spirit within her.
"Mother! Would I had never been one! My life has been a curse to me."
"No, no; don't say that, dear."
"It has, I tell you. There's something wrong in our blood, I suppose.
Look at your brother."
"Poor Julian!" sighed the girl.
"Poor Julian!" cried the woman scornfully. "Of course he is poor, and
he deserves it. He must have been mad."
"But he loved her, mamma, so dearly."
"Loved!" cried the woman with a wild intensity of rage in her deep rich
voice and gesture, as she spat on the floor. "Curse love! Curse it!
What has it done for me? A few sickly embraces--a few years of what the
world calls happiness--and then a widowhood of poverty and misery."
"Mamma, you will kill me if you talk like that."
"Then I will talk like that, and save myself from temptation more than I
can bear," cried the woman fiercely. "What has love done for the son of
whom I was so proud--my gallant-looking, handsome boy? Why, with his
bold, noble, Spanish face and dark eyes, he might have wed some heiress,
married whom he liked--and what does he do? turns himself into a galley
slave."
"Mamma, what are you saying?" cried the girl faintly.
"The truth. What has he done? Married a woman without a _sou_, and had
to accept that post at the mines. Isn't that being a galley slave?"
"But he loved Delia, mamma."
"Loved her! Curse love! I tell you. The ass! The idiot, to be led
away by that sickly, washed-out creature--the Honourable Delia Dymcox,"
she continued, with an intensity of scorn in her tones.
"But she is a lady, mamma."
"Lady? The family are paupers, and, forsooth, they must look down on
him--on us because we have no blood. Well, she is justly punished, and
he too. I hope they like Auvergne."
"Oh, mother," sighed the girl weakly, "you are very cruel."
"Cruel? I wish I had been cruel enough to have strangled you both at
birth. I wish our family were at an end--that it would die out as
Julian's brats waste away there in that hot, dry, sun-cursed region."
"You do not mean it, dear?"
"I do, Mary; I swear I do. Oh that I could have been so weak as to
marry as I did--to be cursed with two such children!"
"You talk so, dear, because you are angry with me," sighed the girl. "I
know you loved poor papa dearly."
"Pish! You are like him."
"Yes, mamma, and poor Julian has always been so like you."
There was silence then in the half-shadowed room, while the mother sat
sternly gazing out at the stream that rippled by the cottage, dancing in
the sunlight and bathing the roots of the willows that kissed its
dimpling, silvery surface. The verdant meadows stretched far away rich
in the lush grass and many flowers that dotted them with touches of
light. All without looked bright and joyous, as a lark high poised
poured forth his lay, which seemed to vibrate in the blue arch of
heaven, and then fall in silvery fragments slowly down to earth.
The girl lay crying silently, the tears moistening her soft white
pillow, as she gazed piteously from time to time at her mother's averted
face, half hidden from her by the white curtain she held aside to gaze
from the window.
"Can you--can you see him coming, mamma?" faltered the girl at last.
"Whom? The doctor?" was the cold response, as the curtain was allowed
to fall back in its place. "No, I have not sent for one. Why should we
publish our shame?"
"Our shame, mamma?"
"Yes, our shame. Is it not as bitter for me? Live or die, I shall send
for no doctor here." Again there was silence, and the elder woman
slowly paced the room, till, passing near the bed, a soft white arm
stole forth, and caught her hand.
"You are very cruel to me, mother. Oh, do look; look again. See if he
is coming."
"If he is coming!" cried the elder. "Are you mad as well as weak? You
will never see him more. Poor fool! I believe even his name is only
assumed."
"I shall," cried the girl with energy, "and he will come. He loves me
too dearly to forsake me now. He is a gentleman and the soul of
honour."
Her face lit up, and the joyous look of love shone in her eyes as she
gazed defiantly at her mother, who looked back at her, half pitying,
half mocking her faith. Then, in spite of herself, she started, for
steps were heard on the path beneath, and as the girl struggled up once
more to her elbow, and craned her neck towards the window, voices were
heard speaking at a little distance.
"There, there," cried the girl, with a sob of joy, as she sank back
laughing hysterically. "What did I say? He loves me--he loves me, and
he has come."
Mrs Riversley ran to the window, and drew aside the curtain furtively
as a couple of young men, gentlemen evidently, and one carrying a
trout-rod, walked slowly by, following the winding path that led round
by the great gravel-pit in the wood that bordered the stream, and soon
after they disappeared amidst the trees.
"That was his step," cried the girl at last. "Who was with him, mamma?"
"Captain Millet."
"Poor Mr Millet!" said the girl softly; and then, with the anxious
troubled look fading from her countenance to give place to one of quiet
content as a smile played round her lips, she lay very still, with
half-closed eyes listening for the returning steps.
Twice she started up to listen, but only to sink back again, very calm
and patient, her full faith that the man she loved would return beaming
from every feature of her handsome young face.
"Mother," she said at last softly; and Mrs Riversley turned towards
her.
"What do you want?"
"Is it not time you brought it back to me, mother--that you laid it by
my side?"
There was no reply, and the girl looked up pleadingly.
"I should like him to see it when he comes," she said softly, and a
wondrous look of love dawned in her pale face, causing a strange pang in
her mother's breast as she stood watching her and evidently trying to
nerve herself for the disclosure she was about to make, one which in her
anger she had thought easy, but which now became terribly difficult.
"If you cannot forgive me, mother dear," said the girl pleadingly, "let
me have my babe: for I love it, I love it," she whispered to herself,
and the soft dawn of a young mother's yearning for her offspring grew
warmer in her face.
"You will never see it more," exclaimed the woman at last, in a hard
harsh voice, though she trembled and shrank from her daughter's eyes as
she spoke. "It will never lie by your side for him to gaze upon your
shame and his: the child is dead."
A piteous cry broke from the young mother's breast, and in her bitter
grief she lay sobbing violently, till nature interposed, and, exhausted,
weak and helpless, she sank into a heavy sleep with the tears still wet
upon her face.
"It is better so--it is better so," muttered Mrs Riversley, as she
stood gazing down at her child. "It will nearly kill her, but, God
forgive me, it must be done."
She stood watching in the shaded room till a slight noise below made her
start, and hastily glancing at her daughter to see that she slept, she
stole on tiptoe from the bedside, and crept downstairs to where a sharp
angular-looking woman of four or five and twenty was standing in the
little drawing-room with her shawl over one arm, and her bonnet swinging
from the strings.
She looked flushed with exercise, and her hair about her temples was wet
with perspiration, while her boots were covered with dust.
"Well?"
"Well," said the woman, with a rude, impatient gesture. "You must give
me a glass of wine. I'm dead beat. It's quite four miles there, and as
hot as hot."
"How dare you speak to me in that insolent way, Jane?" said Mrs
Riversley angrily.
"Oh," said the woman sharply, "this is no time far ma'aming and bowing
and scraping; servants and missuses is all human beings together when
they're in trouble, and folks don't make no difference between them."
"But you might speak in a more respectful way, Jane," said Mrs
Riversley, biting her lips, and looking pale.
"Dessay I might," said the woman; "but this ain't the time. Well, you
want to know about the--"
"Hush! for Heaven's sake, hush," exclaimed Mrs Riversley, glancing
round.
"Oh, there's no one near us," said the woman with a mocking laugh; "not
even the police, so you needn't be afraid. It ain't murder."
"Did you find her?" said Mrs Riversley. "Pray tell me, Jane. I spoke
rather harshly just now, but I could not help it, I was so troubled and
upset."
"Dessay you were; dessay everybody else is," said the woman roughly.
"How's Miss Mary?"
"Better, Jane; _but_ you must never see her again. She must never
know."
"Did you tell her it was dead?" said the woman sharply.
"Yes, yes, and so it must be to her. But tell me," continued Mrs
Riversley eagerly, "did you make the arrangement?"
"Yes, and I had to give her every penny of the money you started me
with."
"And she does not know anything?"
"No," said the woman, "and never will if you behave to me proper."
"Yes, yes, Jane, I will; anything I can do, but you must go from here--
at once."
"And how are you going to manage?"
"As I can," said Mrs Riversley sternly. "This secret must be kept."
"And what are you going to give me to keep it?" said the woman sharply.
"I am not rich, Jane--far from it," began Mrs
Riversley.
"You're rich enough to pay me twenty pounds a year always," said the
woman, with a keen greedy look in her unpleasant face.
"Yes, yes, Jane, I will," said Mrs Riversley eagerly, "on condition
that you keep it secret, and never come near us more."
"Then I want that grey silk dress of Miss Mary's," said the woman, with
the avaricious look growing in her face. "She won't want to wear it
now."
"You shall have it, Jane."
"And there's that velvet jacket I should like."
"You shall have that too, Jane."
"I ain't got a watch and chain," said the woman, "you may as well give
me yourn."
Without a word Mrs Riversley unhooked the little gold watch from her
side, drew the chain from her neck, and threw it over that of her
servant, whose closely set eyes twinkled with delight.
"You must pay me the money in advance every year," said the woman now
sharply. "I'm not going without the first year."
Without replying Mrs Riversley walked to a side-table, unlocked a desk,
and from the drawer took out four crisp new bank-notes.
Jane Glyne, maid-of-all-work at the Dingle, a place two miles from
everywhere, as she said, and at which she was sure no decent servant
would stop, held out her crooked fingers for the money, but Mrs
Riversley placed the hand containing the notes behind her.
"One word first," she said firmly. "I have agreed in every respect to
the hard terms you have made."
"Well, if you call them hard terms"--began the woman in an insolent
tone.
"Silence!" exclaimed Mrs Riversley, "and listen to me."
She spoke in a low deep voice, full of emotion, and the low-bred woman
quailed before her as she went on.
"I say I have come to your terms that you have imposed upon me."
"I never imposed upon you," began Jane.
"Silence, woman!" cried Mrs Riversley, stamping her foot imperiously.
"I have agreed to all you wished, but I must have my conditions too.
You have that unfortunate babe."
"Your grandson," said the woman in a low voice, but Mrs Riversley did
not heed her.
"Bring it up as you will, or trust it to whom you will, but from this
hour it must be dead to us. I shall give you the money in my hand, and
I will do more. This is June. From now every half year fifteen pounds
shall be ready at an address in London that I will give you. To such a
woman as you that should be a goodly sum, but my conditions are that
within an hour you shall have made up a bundle of the best of your
things, and left this place, never to return. If you ever molest us by
letter or visit, the money will be stopped."
"And suppose I tell everybody about it?" said the woman insolently.
"It is no criminal proceeding that I am aware of," said Mrs Riversley
coldly; "but you will not do that; you value the money too much. Do you
agree to my terms?"
"But my box," said the woman. "I can't carry away half my things."
"Here is another five-pound note," said Mrs Riversley coldly; "five
five-pound notes. I gave you ten pounds before, and you only gave that
woman half."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know your grasping character," said Mrs Riversley firmly.
"Now--quick--do you decide? Try to extort more, and finding what you
are, I shall risk all discovery, and bear the shame sooner than be under
your heel. Do you agree?"
"Yes," said the woman surlily.
"Quick, then; get your things and go. I will bring you the dress and
jacket."
"Ain't I to say good-bye to Miss Mary?"
"No," said Mrs Riversley firmly. "Now go."
The woman stood biting the side of one of her fingers for a few moments,
and seemed to hesitate; but the rustle of the new bank-notes as Mrs
Riversley laid them upon the table and placed a paperweight upon them
decided her, and in an incredibly short time she stood once more in the
room, in her best clothes, and with a bulky bundle tied up in an old
Paisley shawl.
Five minutes later she had received the money without a word being
spoken on either side, and was standing just out of sight of the
cottage, by the stream, hugging the bundle to her with one hand, and
gnawing at the side of her finger.
"What a fool I was!" she muttered viciously. "She'd have given double
if I'd pressed her, and I'm put off now with a beggarly thirty pound a
year. I've a good mind to go back."
She took a few steps in the direction of the cottage, but stopped with a
grim chuckle.
"Thirty pound a year regular for doing nothing is better than ten pound
and lots of work. Perhaps we should only quarrel, for she's a hard one
when she's up. But I might have had more."
She stood thinking for a few moments.
"What shall I do?" she muttered. "If I leave it with them they'll kill
it in a week, and then there's an end of it, and I get my money for
nothing. If I fetch it away I have to keep it. But it may be worth my
while. Mrs Riversley ain't everybody, for there's Miss Mary, and
there's him, and if he isn't a swell, t'other one is, I'm sure. What's
that?"
She started in affright, for just then a strange, hoarse shriek rang out
of the wood to her left, and it sounded so wild and agonising that she
stood trembling and listening for awhile.
"It was like as if someone had jumped into one of the deep river holes
or the big pit," she muttered; "but I dursen't go to see. It was very
horrid."
Whatever the cry, it was not repeated, and the woman hurried on for
about a mile, when, coming to a side lane, she hesitated as to the
course she should take, and ended by going straight on.
At the end of a score of paces she stopped short, turned and hurried
back to the side lane, down which she walked as fast as her bundle would
let her.
"I don't care, I will," she muttered; "thirty pound a year will keep us
both. I'll fetch him away; he may be worth his weight in gold."
Prologue--Chapter II.