"Mr. Vavasour, up at the Park now, is the child. Mrs. Archer, the mother, lives down in the wood, yonder. I have never seen her but once since I came here; I have fled the sight of her. You know her as Mrs.
Grey. You will see her, tell her what I say; she will believe it fast enough."
"Your sin has been fearful; G.o.d knows it has," said Mr. Linchmore, trying to speak composedly.
"I have been a sinful woman; humbly I acknowledge it, but if my sin has been great, what has been its punishment? Look in my face, you will read the traces of suffering there; but my heart, you cannot read that; and that has suffered tenfold."
"What proof have you of all you say?"
"Mrs. Archer will need none," she said, "if you tell her Tabitha swears it"s the truth. But here"s the letter with her marriage lines," she added, taking one from under her pillow, "many"s the time I"ve been tempted to destroy it, but somehow daren"t do it; and here"s another old Mr. Vavasour gave me to keep, stating when and how we had received the child; in it you"ll find the beads he wore round his neck when I stole him."
"Are these all the proofs you can give?"
"No. I"ve a stronger one than this. The child had a dark mark on his arm, it could not have escaped his mother"s eye; it can"t have worn away, it must be there now, and that"ll tell who he is plainer and better than any words of mine. "Are you going?" she asked, as Mr.
Linchmore rose.
"Yes, the sooner I tell the dreadful tale the better, if my heart does not break the while. Have you anything else to say? Would you wish to see Mrs. Archer?"
"Oh! no! no!" she said, "don"t send her; I know I"ve no mercy to expect at her hands, I showed her none. She"ll hate and curse me, may be."
"You have little mercy to expect from one you have so deeply injured,"
replied Mr. Linchmore, "but I will see you again, or send another to speak with you. My thoughts are in a whirl, and I cannot--I feel incapable of talking to you today."
"And must I be satisfied with this?" said Jane, "well, I submit; I have not deserved a kind word from you. Still I loved your mother."
"She would have been better for your hate," he replied, moodily, "but in case I should not come again, I leave you my forgiveness for the evil you have helped to work, though it goes hard against my heart to give it; but you have a higher mercy to ask for than mine. I trust you have implored that already--humbly and sincerely."
"G.o.d knows I have," replied Jane, feebly.
Mr. Linchmore went slowly from the cottage, scarcely heeding Mrs. Marks"
curtseys and parting words, and struck across the fields towards the wood.
It was a sinful, grievous tale, the one he had just heard, and a bitter trial to him, not only to listen to it, but to know that from his lips must come the words to denounce his mother,--proclaim her guilt. It went bitterly against him, although he had no loving reverence for his parent; still, it must be done, his misery must make another"s happiness, must restore the son to his mother. He hesitated not, but walked firmly on, perhaps angrily.
At the corner of the wood he met Marks, but his heart was too full for words with any one, and he merely acknowledged the pa.s.sing touch of his hat, as he turned off into one of the by-paths, a nearer cut to Mrs.
Grey"s cottage. Just as he was about to emerge again into the broad beaten path, scarcely a dozen yards from the cottage, he stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. A slight rustle in the bushes near attracted his attention. He looked up, and saw a man, gun in hand, creeping cautiously out of the underwood.
At another time Mr. Linchmore would have confronted him at once, but now he allowed him to pa.s.s on unmolested. The man crossed the path, reached the opposite side, and was about plunging again into the bushes, when Robert Vavasour"s hand arrested his footsteps.
"What do you here with that gun, my man?" he asked.
It was growing dusk, almost twilight in the wood; still, as the man suddenly turned his face full on Vavasour, the latter exclaimed,
"Ah! it is you, is it? You villain! you don"t escape me this time."
A short quick scuffle, a bright flash, a loud report, and Robert Vavasour dropped to the ground.
With a great oath, the man sprang up, but ere he could stir one step, Mr. Linchmore"s hand was upon him. A desperate struggle ensued; but a stronger arm, a more powerful frame, contended with him now, and in a few moments he lay prostrate, but still struggling, on the ground.
"Could you be content with nothing less than murder?" asked a voice, sternly.
Mr. Linchmore shuddered as he recognised "Goody Grey."
"For G.o.d"s sake, Mrs. Grey, go and seek help for the wounded man yonder."
"Why should I?" she exclaimed, fiercely. "I will never stir a finger for you or yours. I have sworn it."
"It is your son, your long-lost son! Tabitha bid me tell you so."
Goody Grey,--or rather Mrs. Archer"s,--whole frame trembled violently; she quivered and shook, and leant heavily on her staff, as though she would have fallen.
"Fly!" he continued. "For G.o.d"s sake, fly! Rouse yourself, Mrs. Archer, and aid your son."
"My son!" she repeated, softly and tenderly, but as if doubting his words.
Again Mr. Linchmore implored her, again she heard those words "It is your son!" which seemed to burn her brain. But the power of replying, of moving, seemed taken from her.
A minute pa.s.sed, and then the weakness pa.s.sed away. Her eyes flashed, her face flushed, then blanched again, while with a mighty effort she drew up her tall figure to its utmost height, and proudly, but hurriedly, went over to where Robert lay.
She staunched the blood flowing from the wound, and tenderly knelt by his side and lifted his head gently on her bosom.
There was a slight break in the branches of the trees overhead, so that what little light there was, streamed through the gap full down on the spot where Mrs. Archer knelt.
She raised his coat sleeve, and baring his arm, bent down her head over it.
A moment after a wild cry rent the air, and rang through the wood.
"Oh! help! help!" she cried; "Oh! my son! my son!"
There was no need to cry for help; the sound of the gun had been heard, and the keepers came crowding to the spot, and with them, Marks.
A litter was soon constructed for the wounded man, and once more he was mournfully and sorrowfully borne away towards the Hall.
Marks drew near the captured poacher, now standing sullenly and silently near.
"Ah!" said Marks, as he was being led away, "I thought no good had brought farmer Hodge down here, four years ago. You"ll may be swing for this, my lad; and break your father"s heart, as you did your mother"s, not so long ago."
With which consolatory remark, Marks went back to his cottage.
CHAPTER XIV.
DESPAIR!
"Ah! what have eyes to do with sleep, That seek, and vainly seek to weep?
No dew on the dark lash appears,-- The heart is all too full for tears."