Kitabı oku: «It May Be True, Vol. 3 (of 3)», sayfa 8

Anne looked bewildered as the door opened and Amy returned with Frances, and still more so when she saw the child's face light up with pleasure, and he tried in his feeble way to clasp her neck.

"I cannot bear to look at it," said Amy, as she softly left the room.

"Naughty! naughty Missy," he said as he kissed her.

Frances felt as if she could have died then, without one sigh of regret. For a moment after he released her she did not raise her head.

"My dear,—dear Bertie," she said, struggling with her tears. Then presently she sat down and fondled and stroked his thin small hand, soothing and coaxing him as well as she was able. If her heart could have broken, surely it would have broken then.

"Ah! he's thin enough now, Miss," observed Nurse, "even that sour stiff-backed lady would have a hard matter to call him fat. He's never been the same since she looked at him with those sharp ferret eyes of hers;" and then she moved away and went and seated herself by the fire, recounting the whole history to Anne, of not only her dislike for Miss Barker, but the reason of Bertie's apparent partiality for Frances; while the latter sat and listened to Bertie's talk, he wounding and opening her heart afresh at every word he uttered.

"Naughty Missy not to come to Bertie!" he said; and Frances could not tell him why she had stayed away; she could only remain silent and so allow him to conclude she had been unkind.

She took up some of the books Amy had left.

"Here are pretty pictures," she said, "shall Missy tell you some of the nice stories?"

"No, you mustn't. Mamma tells me them; I like her to, she tells them so pretty."

"Is there nothing Missy can do for you? Shall she sing you a song?"

"Mamma sings 'Gentle Jesus;' you don't know one so pretty do you?"

"No, Bertie, I am sure I don't."

Presently his little face brightened. "I should like you to get me kitty," he said.

"Yes. Who is kitty though?"

"That's what Master Bertie cried for the very day he was taken ill. It's the kitten he saw in the village, Miss," said Hannah.

"Bertie shall have kitty," said Frances, decidedly. "Missy will fetch her."

"Yes, she's big now, her mother won't cry," he said, as if not quite satisfied that she would not.

It had come on to rain, since the morning but what cared Frances for that; she scarcely stayed to snatch her hat and cloak before she was hurrying through it. What cared she for the rain or anything else? Her whole soul was with Bertie—the child who through her means was dying, and yet had clasped her neck so lovingly as she bent over him dismayed and appalled at the ravages illness had made in his sweet face.

There was only Matthew in the little parlour as she entered the cottage.

"You'd better not come in, Miss," he said "no offence, Miss, but my sister-in-law's been ill with the fever these days past."

"It can make no difference now," she said, bitterly, "that little boy I brought here only ten days ago is—is dying of the fever he caught here."

"Lord save us! Miss, dying?" said Matthew regretfully.

"He has just asked for the kitten he saw here. Will you let him have it? It may be," she said despairingly, seeing he hesitated, "only—only for a day, or for—a few hours, you would never have the heart to refuse a child's last wish." In days gone by she would have abused him for the hand he had had in causing poor Bertie's illness, and her misery. But it was different now.

"No, Miss, you're right, I haven't the heart to. What's the kitten's life worth next to the young master's. Here take it and welcome; though what the Missus'll say when she finds it's gone, and the old un a howling about the place I don't know, but there, it can't be helped," said Matthew philosophically, as Frances wrapped the kitten up carefully in her cloak, and hurried away.

The evening had closed in by the time Frances reached the Park again. She hastily changed her wet things, and went at once to Bertie's room, but her heart misgave her, as, going down the long corridor, she saw Anne seated on the ledge of the large window, with the traces of tears on her face.

"I am not too late?" she asked.

"I don't know," replied Anne. "He is very, very weak. I could not bear to stay."

Frances went on, Robert, as well as Amy, was in the room. He moved a little on one side to allow Frances to come near. "Bertie, my boy," he said, "Missy has brought you Kitty."

Frances leant over, and placed it beside him.

He opened his eyes feebly, then took the kitten so full of life, and nestled it to his side.

"Bertie is very sick," he said, weakly, as he tried to murmur his thanks.

This was the first time he had spoken of feeling ill. How pitifully his little childish words smote upon the hearts of his sad, sorrowing parents.

"Bertie is very sick," he said again. "I think Bertie is going to die. Poor Bertie!"

His mother's tears fell like rain. "God will take care of my boy for me," she said. "My boy, my precious Bertie!"

"Yes; but you mustn't cry, you and Papa, and Hannah."

Robert's face was wet with tears, while old Hannah sat away in a corner, with her face covered up in her apron, sobbing audibly; but she stifled her sobs upon this, his—might be—last request.

"God bless you, Bertie," said Frances, in a broken voice, ere she went away.

"Good night," he said. "You may have my top, for bringing me Kitty. Papa will get it for you."

And then he turned his head away wearily, and begged his mother to hush him in her arms to sleep. Robert lifted him gently, and laid him close to Amy. She drew him near, nearer still to her poor breaking heart, but she dared not press her lips to his, lest she should draw away the feeble breath, already coming so faintly, growing fainter and fainter every moment.

"Kitty must go back to her mother," he said. "Take care of Kitty—pretty Kitty."

But soon he grew too weak to heed even Kitty, and could only murmur short broken sentences about Papa, Mamma, and sometimes Missy.

Presently he roused again. "Don't cry, Papa, Mamma—Kiss Bertie—Bertie's very sick. Tell Hannah to bring a light—Bertie wants to see you."

Alas! his eyes had grown dim. He could no longer distinguish those he loved best, those who could scarcely answer his cry for their tears. They brought a light, old faithful Hannah did.

"Can you see me, my own darling?" asked Amy.

"No—no," he murmured, and his eyes closed gently, his breathing became more gentle still; once more he said, lovingly, "Dear Papa,—Dear Mamma," and then—he slept.

"Don't disturb him, Robert," sobbed Amy to her husband, who was kneeling near.

But Bertie had gone to a sleep from which there was no awaking.

Bertie, little loving Bertie, was dead.

 
"Softly thou'st sunk to sleep,
From trials rude and sore;
Now the good Shepherd, with His sheep
Shall guard thee evermore."
 

CHAPTER XIII.
JANE'S STORY

 
"An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye.
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago.
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know;
With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ear receives their wailing,
'Let me kiss my Celin ere I die—Alas! alas for Celin!'"
 

Lockhart's Spanish Ballads.

The news of the sad death at the park spread like wildfire through the quiet, little village, and soon reached the turnpike gate, where Jane was fast recovering from the fever that had proved so fatal to poor Bertie. She, like Frances, moaned and wept when she heard of it; like her, her heart cowered and shrank within her; and for three days she could scarcely be persuaded to eat or drink, or say a word to anyone. Day after day she lay in her bed with her face steadily turned away from her sister, who as usual, tried to worry her into a more reasonable frame of mind, but finding it useless, left her to herself, and called her sullen; but it was not so, Jane's heart had been touched and softened ever since the unfortunate day of Bertie's visit; he had done more towards bringing repentance to that guilty heart than years of suffering had been able to accomplish; for Jane had suffered, suffered from the weight of a secret, that at times well-nigh made her as crazy as Marks imagined her to be. It was this terrible secret that had made her so silent and strange, this that had driven her neighbours to look upon her as half-witted. But she wanted no one's pity, no one's consolation, had steeled and hardened her heart against it, and let her life pass on and wither in its lone coldness. As she had lived, so she might have died, smothering all remorse, driving back each repentant feeling as it swept past her; might have died—but for Bertie's visit. Since then, the firm will to resist the good had been shaken; she was not only weak from the effects of the fever, but inwardly weak; weak at heart, weak in spirit. She battled with the repentant feelings so foreign to her, fought against what she had been a stranger too for so long, but it was all in vain; she resisted with a will, but it was a feeble will, and in the end the good triumphed, and Jane was won.

One morning, the fourth since Bertie died, Mrs. Marks took up Jane's breakfast as usual, and placed it on a chair by the bed-side.

"Here's a nice fresh egg," said she, "what you don't often see, this time of the year, I wish it might strengthen your lips, as well as your stomach. I'm sick of seeing you lie there with never a word. I'd rather a deal have a bad one, than none at all," and she drew back the curtains, and stirred up the freshly-lit fire.

"I'm ready and willing to speak," replied Jane, "though God forgive me, it's bad enough, as you say, what I have to tell."

Mrs. Marks was startled, not only at Jane's addressing her after so long a silence, but at the changed voice, so different to the usual reserved, measured tone, and short answers given in monosyllables. But she took no notice, and merely said,—

"What's the matter? Ain't the breakfast to your liking?"

"It's better than I deserve," was the reply.

Mrs. Marks was more amazed than before. "You don't feel so well this morning, Jane," said she, kindly, "the weakness is bad on you, like it was on me; but, please God, you'll get round fast enough, never fear. Here!" and she placed the tray on the bed, "take a sup of the tea, and I'll put a dash of brandy in it; that'll rouse you up a bit, I'll be bound."

Jane made no resistance, but as Mrs. Marks put down the cup, she placed her hand on hers, and said, "You won't think me crazy, Anne, if I ask you to send and beg young Master Robert to come and see me?"

"Don't you know he's been dead these four days past? There—there, lie still, and don't be a worriting yourself this way; your head ain't strong yet."

"It's stronger and better than it's been many a long day. Anne, I must see Master Robert, not the dead child, but the young Squire. I've that to tell him that'll make his heart ache, as it has mine, only there's sin on mine—sin on mine," said she, sitting up in bed, and rocking herself about.

"Then don't tell it. What's the use of making heart aches?"

"I can't bear the weight of it any longer. I must tell. Ever since I saw that child I've been striving against it; but it's no good—no good. I can't keep the secret any longer, Anne. I dare not. If I do it'll drive me clean out of my mind."

"Just you answer me one question, Jane. Is it right to tell it? Can any good come of it?"

"Yes, so help me God. It can! It will!"

"Then," replied Mrs. Marks, "I'll send Matthew at once; mother and I always thought there was something had driven you to be so strange when you left your place up at the Park fifteen years ago."

Jane laid herself down and covered up her face, while with a troubled sigh Mrs. Marks went below to seek her husband.

Matthew was surprised and confounded when bidden go up to the Hall and fetch the Squire.

"What!" he said, "are yer gone clean crazy as well as Jane! It's likely I'll go and fetch the Squire at the bidding of a 'dafty.' How do I know, but what it's a fool's errand he'll come on?"

But reason as he would, his words had no weight with Mrs. Marks, and Matthew had to go in the end, though with a more misgiving heart and rueful countenance than when he had gone to the young doctor's.

There was little occasion for misgivings on Matthew's part, Mr. Linchmore received him kindly, and promised to call at the turnpike during the day.

What setting to rights of the cottage there was when Marks returned with the news! It was always tidy and clean, but now for the especial honour of the Squire's visit all its corners were ransacked and everything turned topsy-turvy. Mrs. Marks was still unable to help much in the work, but she dusted and tidied the cups and saucers, and knick-knacks, although they had not seen a speck of dust for days, and certainly not since she had been downstairs again; Sarah's arms ached with the scrubbing and scouring she was made to do in a certain given time, while her mistress stood by, scolding and finding fault by turns. Nothing was done well, or as it ought to be done; but then, as the girl said, Mrs. Marks was so finicking, there was no pleasing her, she should be glad enough when she was able to do the work for herself, and she could go home to her mother.

When Mr. Linchmore came, he scarcely rested in the newly swept parlour at all, but desired at once to be shown to the sick woman's room. With many apologies from Mrs. Marks at her sister's inability to rise and see him, she preceded him up stairs.

Jane was sitting propped up in bed with pillows, her pale face looking paler and more emaciated than usual. Mr. Linchmore's heart was touched with pity as he noted the care-worn, prematurely old face, with its deep lines telling of sorrow or sin. Sin! Surely if this woman's life had been sinful, what had he, with his strict principles of right, to do with such as her? What had she—as Marks assured him—to tell, that nearly concerned himself? His heart reverted to his mother. Was it of her she would speak? of her whose ungovernable temper had driven his father to seek with his children that happiness abroad that had been denied him at home? But then his mother had been mad, at least he had been taught to think that the one excuse for her strange conduct. How severe and tyrannical she had been, not only to his brother and himself, but to that sweet, uncomplaining sister, whose life had been, he truly believed, shortened through her violence, and yet again, when the passion was over, how fiercely loving, how vehemently passionate in her cravings for her children's love, which she alienated from her more and more each day. No; others might love and reverence the name of mother, but Mr. Linchmore's heart was stirred with no such feelings; only a vague sense of fear, a nameless dread of evil came across him as he fancied it might be of her Jane had to speak.

He drew near, and bent down kindly. "I fear you have been very ill," he said, "with the same fever that has wrought such desolation in my home."

"Yes, sir, I have been ill—am ill; but now it's more from remorse; from the guilt of a wicked, cruel heart, than this same fever you speak of."

There was a pause. Jane spoke with difficulty, her breath came quick and short, as though her heart laboured heavily under the load of sin she spoke of.

"Turn more to the light," she said, "so that I may see your face. So—that is well. Still like your mother, strangely like, with none of her hard passions or cruel hate. Your love might be fierce, burning, and strong, but unlike her you would sacrifice your own happiness to secure the well being of the one you love. Had she done so, what misery to her, what misery to me might have been spared?"

"Did you know my mother?" asked Mr. Linchmore.

"Tell him, Anne," said Jane, as Mrs. Marks held some wine and water to her pale lips, that seemed too feeble to utter another word.

"If you please, sir," said Mrs. Marks, dropping her deepest curtsey, "this is Tabitha, my sister 'Tabitha Jane,' who was brought up so kindly by your lady mother; but there, I don't wonder you don't remember her. I had a hard matter to myself, when I went over to Dean to fetch her, come four years ago this next Christmas."

"Tabitha! This Tabitha! The pale, meek girl, who bore so uncomplainingly what we boys resented. Can this be Tabitha?"

"Yes," replied Jane. "It can. It is. The weight of a guilty secret has ploughed my face with these deep furrows. Call me not meek; I was anything but that, I was a sinful, wicked woman. Oh! I have much to tell: much that has been locked up in my heart for more than thirty years. How I have suffered under the burden that at last has grown too heavy for me to bear, and I sink under its load, must divulge it; must have her forgiveness, ere I die!"

"Your words fill me with a foreboding of evil," replied Mr. Linchmore. "Think well before you speak, Tabitha. Is it necessary that this secret, sinful as you say it is, should be divulged. Does it concern, does it benefit those living?"

"If it did not, I would never speak it, but struggle on with its sorrow, till I died. No hard, and cruel as my mistress was, not from Tabitha should come the tale that will denounce her and her evil ways."

"She was my mother, Tabitha," said Mr. Linchmore, as if reproaching her harshness.

"True, she was. I do not forget it; still I must speak, must tell of her sin and mine, for it is sin, fearful sin. I would, for your sake, Master Robert, that it were otherwise; but when I tell of my wrong-doing, with mine must come hers. It must. Justice must be done. The mother's craving, broken heart must be healed."

"God forbid that I should be the one to stand in the way. Speak, Tabitha! but be as merciful as you can; remember you speak of one whose memory ought to be dear to me. I will steel my heart to hear—and bear."

"Do so," she said. "It is a long story. I must go back to the days when I was a child, and your mother, Miss Julia, took me away from my home to hers. She was of an imperious will and proud nature; her mother had died at giving her birth, and her father had never controlled her in any way. She was as wild and wayward as the trees that grew in the forest near here, when they were shaken by the wind. With her, to ask was to have, and when she brought me home and declared her intention of bringing me up, and making a companion and plaything of me, no objection was raised, and she petted and scolded me by turns, as it suited her haughty will. At first I disliked her, then feared, and at length loved, worshipped her, as some beautiful spirit. Her father died; but then it was too late to save his child, or let others teach her wild spirit lessons of meekness and obedience; then your grandmother came and took us both away to live in her own home. She was a widow, with two sons, the eldest not quite so old as Miss Julia.

"A change came over your mother. She loved. Loved the eldest of the two, your father; loved as only she could love, with all the wild, impetuous passion of her nature. It would have been strange had he not loved her in return—so beautiful, so wayward, so bright a being as she was then. They were engaged to be married, and, I believe, had they married then all would have gone well, and perhaps the evil that followed been averted. But they did not marry, they tarried—tarried until another girl, a niece, was left desolate, and she too came to Brampton."

Jane, or Tabitha, paused for a moment, then went on more slowly,

"She was, I believe, an angel of goodness, as pure as she was fair, and as meek and gentle as your mother was ungovernable. From this time nothing went right. Your father and my mistress had words together oftener than formerly; but while she wept and lamented in secret, he would seek Miss Mary, and pour out his wounded heart to her. By degrees Miss Julia grew to learn it, and became jealous. Then, with the fierceness of her nature, she would storm and rave if she but saw Master Robert speaking to her; and yet, when the angry fit was over, be as humbly loving, as passionately sorry.

"Things could not go on like this for ever. I believe her temper was fairly wearing out your father's love, and that he would gladly have turned over to Miss Mary if he could; but I, who was set as a watch and a spy over the poor young thing—she was eighteen years younger than your mother—saw that her heart was another's, even young Mr. Archer's, who was part tutor, part companion to your father's younger brother. How I hated her then—for I had dared to love him myself—and determined on her ruin! How I hid the secret that would have made Miss Julia so happy in the deepest recesses of my heart, and urged my mistress on to believe that Miss Mary loved Master Robert!"

Again Jane paused, then continued as she turned her face away from Mr. Linchmore, who was listening intently to her,

"One morning, I remember it well,—I had quietly wrought Miss Julia up to such a pitch of frenzy, that I believe she would have stopped at nothing to accomplish the removal of her hated rival,—the door was suddenly flung open by your father; his face was pale, and he was evidently labouring under strong excitement. 'Julia,' he said, 'do you still wish to be my wife?'

"There was no need of a reply, could he not see the sudden light in her eyes, the quick bright flash that spread like wildfire over her face.

"That day week they were married, and went away from Brampton for a time.

"I remained behind with my enemy, watching and waiting; but I could do her no harm. Your grandmother loved her as the apple of her eye. I could see Miss Julia—now Mrs. Robert Linchmore,—was as nothing to her. Then I tried to cause a quarrel between her and young Mr. Archer; in vain; they loved too well, my arts were useless, my plans and wishes powerless.

"Your parents returned. A year passed away, and then you were born; but I could see your father was not happy. He still loved Miss Mary, strive as he would against it, while your mother treated her like a dog.

"Another year, and your sister was born; but things went worse. Your mother was no sooner up and about again than your uncle's health failed terribly, and he and Mr. Archer went abroad.

"Six months passed, during which your mother grew more insanely jealous of Miss Mary, and more tyrannical. She bore it all uncomplainingly; but I saw that she worried and fretted in secret, and grew thinner and thinner every day.

"One morning I went hastily into her room, and found her working a baby's cap, which she hurriedly thrust on one side as I entered; but my suspicions were aroused at her evident confusion, and glancing at her, her sin—if sin it was, became evident to my eyes, and I flew, rather than walked to my mistress's room. The scene that followed between her and Miss Mary I will not describe; but through it all—although she did not deny the imputation we cast on her,—she vowed she was innocent, and Mr. Archer's lawful wife. I believed her then. I know she told the truth now.

"That night she fled from the Park, while your father left soon after to join his brother, declaring he would never live with his wife again until she had done Miss Mary justice. Your grandmother never recovered the shock of all these terrible doings, she took Miss Mary's sin to heart. I don't think she believed it: but she sorrowed, and refused to be comforted, and soon after died. Then news reached us of Mr. Archer's death."

Jane stopped again, and lay back feebly against the pillows.

"With the news of his death came a letter, addressed, in his handwriting, to Miss Mary. I recognised the writing, and kept the letter, mad as it made me to read those loving words of his written to another. She never had the letter, or her marriage lines, which were with it."

"Wretched woman!" said Mr. Linchmore, sternly. "Had you no heart—no mercy?"

"No, none. And now I must hasten to close, for I am weak and faint. I told no one of the letter, but tracked, by my mistress's order, Miss Mary. I found her at last. She had heard of her husband's death, for she wore widow's mourning, and looked heart-broken. She was poor, too, with only the small annuity old Mrs. Linchmore had been able to leave her; for her husband, Mr. Archer, had not, I believe, a farthing to give her at his death; but what cared I for that. I took away the one tie that bound her to this earth—I took her child."

"That was not my mother's sin," said Mr. Linchmore, interrupting her. "Thank God for that!"

"Stop! Don't interrupt me! I did it, because she bade me do it. I don't think then I should have done it else, because he was dead, and my heart did not feel so hard as it had done, and I should have told my mistress how I had belied Miss Mary to her, had I dared summon the courage to do so; but I dreaded to think of her anger at being deceived. Well, enough, I took the child. He was a lovely, sweet infant, gentle and fair like his mother had been, and I could not find it in my heart to do the evil with him my mistress wished; for her heart could not but feel savage at the thought of his being her husband's child. So I kept him hid away till long after I had stolen him; then I carried him to Mr. Vavasour, a kind, mild looking, middle-aged gentleman, who had often visited the Park at one time; but now, ever since Mrs. Robert had been left in possession, never came.

"Mr. Vavasour refused to take the child at first, but I pleaded so hard; I told him what the boy's fate would be if he turned a deaf ear to my entreaties; that the mother hated him as a love child, and that the knowledge of his birth would bring sin and shame upon her, and much more beside, and in the end he consented to adopt him,—and did. Four years after this, your father returned home, and things went on more smoothly; your brother Charles was born, and my mistress seemed at last happy, and her restless spirit satisfied; but her temper, at times, was as bad as ever, and I don't believe, at heart, she was happy with the weight of the sin she thought she had been guilty of, on her conscience. How Miss Mary came to guess we had aught to do with her boy, I know not. But about a year after your brother's birth she came and taxed us with the theft. How altered she was! Grief and the mother's sorrow had done their work surely, and I scarcely dared look on the wreck I had helped to make.

"She told us that the loss of her child had driven her mad, and that for months she had been watched and looked after. She conjured us—implored—all in vain; my mistress denied our guilt, and defied her; but your father believed the poor, sorrowing, frantic creature, and never spoke to his wife after, but left her, taking his children with him.

"He never saw your mother again.

"My mistress bore up bravely after he was gone. None guessed of her desolated heart, or that it still loved so passionately. During the five years that followed, I scarce know how she lived; I could see her heart was fast breaking, and that all her hope in life was gone. She grew more tyrannical than ever; there was not one of the few servants we had but did not fear her and think her mad. She would go down the small staircase that led from her room out into the park, and roam for hours at night. As she grew weaker and weaker, and I felt she would die, my heart relented more and more. I could not bear to witness her misery. Then I owned the boy was alive, and begged and implored her to let us find him and restore him to his mother; I dared not say I knew where he was, or that he was not her husband's child; but she resisted my entreaties with violence, and made me swear I never would tell what we had done. She grew worse and worse; but struggled on, defying every thing and everyone. I had a hard matter to get her to see the young doctor even.

"One night she was so weak she would lay on a mattress on the floor, not having the strength to get into bed; as I sat by her side and watched, she fell into a deep sleep. Soon after, I heard steps coming up the secret stairs; I needed no one to tell who that was—my heart whispered it was Miss Mary long before she stood before me. She never said a word, but sat away on the other side of my mistress. My heart shuddered as I looked at her; she was more altered than ever; her hair was quite grey, such lovely fair hair as it had been!—the softness of her face was gone; the sweet gentle look had gone too, and a painful frown contracted her forehead. While I gazed, I forgot Miss Mary, and could think of nothing but the angry, bereaved, half-crazed Mrs. Archer. I knew then, that those who had injured her had no mercy to expect at her hands, and I felt afraid of her, and yet I dared not bid her go, but wished my mistress would tell her the truth when she awoke from that death-like slumber. I prayed she might,—for what harm could that angry mother do to a dying woman? But my prayer was not answered. I forgot, when I breathed it, my own sinfulness,—forgot, even, that if vengeance came at all, it would fall on me; and, if I had thought of it, I would not have stayed the truth from being told then. I swear I would not. I was too miserable. God knows, I would have told, myself, but for the sake of my oath, and that angry look on Mrs. Archer's face; it tied my tongue.

"When my mistress roused, I shall never forget her anger at seeing Mrs. Archer. She heaped a storm of abuse on her head, while Mrs. Archer prayed and wept by turns; promising even to bless those who had robbed her, if they would only give her back her lost treasure. 'Give me back my boy!' was the ever repeated, fervent, agonized cry of her heart."

"She did not, could not plead in vain," cried Mr. Linchmore. "No, no, my mother was not so bad as that!"

"Nerve your heart to bear the rest, it is soon told. Tears streamed from her eyes in vain. She pleaded in vain. My mistress was obdurate. 'I die,' she said, 'but I die with the knowledge that you, who have been the one stumbling-block of my life, and have made it miserable, and a curse to me, are even more wretched than myself, for I will never speak the word that will make you happy. The secret shall die with me.' When Mrs. Archer saw that all her pleading was vain, she grew frantic, and scarce knew what she said in her madness. My mistress grew even more angry than she. I strove to quiet her, to stay the torrent of words, but her whole frame shook with angry passion as she sat up unaided on the bed. I saw it was too much for her, tried to avert it, but, before she could utter a word, she fell back again. 'God have mercy upon me!' she cried, and with that one prayer on her lips she died. I know no more, I fell insensible, as Mrs. Archer, seeing her last hope gone, gave one terrible fearful cry of despair."