The woman looked at me for a moment,smiled,and shook her head with the air of mingled mystery and importance which seems to say,'I am unfathomable.'Idid not care to press the question,though I suspected that much of her apparent reluctance was affected,knowing that my doubts respecting the identity of the person whom I had come to visit must soon be set at rest,and after a little pause the worthy Abigail went on as fluently as ever.She told me that her young mistress had been,for the time she had been with her--that was,for about a year and a half--in declining health and spirits,and that she had loved her little child to a degree beyond expression--so devotedly that she could not,in all probability,survive it long.
While she was running on in this way the bell rang,and signing me to follow,she opened the room door,but stopped in the hall,and taking me a little aside,and speaking in a whisper,she told me,as Ivalued the life of the poor lady,not to say one word of the death of young O'Mara.
I nodded acquiescence,and ascending a narrow and ill-constructed staircase,she stopped at a chamber door and knocked.
'Come in,'said a gentle voice from within,and,preceded by my conductress,I entered a moderately-sized,but rather gloomy chamber.
There was but one living form within it --it was the light and graceful figure of a young woman.She had risen as Ientered the room;but owing to the obscurity of the apartment,and to the circumstance that her face,as she looked towards the door,was turned away from the light,which found its way in dimly through the narrow windows,I could not instantly recognise the features.
'You do not remember me,sir?'said the same low,mournful voice.'I am--I WAS--Ellen Heathcote.'
'I do remember you,my poor child,'
said I,taking her hand;'I do remember you very well.Speak to me frankly--speak to me as a friend.Whatever I can do or say for you,is yours already;only speak.'
'You were always very kind,sir,to those--to those that WANTED kindness.'
The tears were almost overflowing,but she checked them;and as if an accession of fortitude had followed the momentary weakness,she continued,in a subdued but firm tone,to tell me briefly the circumstances of her marriage with O'Mara.
When she had concluded the recital,she paused for a moment;and I asked again:
'Can I aid you in any way--by advice or otherwise?'
'I wish,sir,to tell you all I have been thinking about,'she continued.'I am sure,sir,that Master Richard loved me once--I am sure he did not think to deceive me;but there were bad,hard-hearted people about him,and his family were all rich and high,and I am sure he wishes NOW that he had never,never seen me.Well,sir,it is not in my heart to blame him.What was _I_that I should look at him?--an ignorant,poor,country girl--and he so high and great,and so beautiful.
The blame was all mine--it was all my fault;I could not think or hope he would care for me more than a little time.Well,sir,I thought over and over again that since his love was gone from me for ever,I should not stand in his way,and hinder whatever great thing his family wished for him.So I thought often and often to write him a letter to get the marriage broken,and to send me home;but for one reason,I would have done it long ago:there was a little child,his and mine--the dearest,the loveliest.'She could not go on for a minute or two.'The little child that is lying there,on that bed;but it is dead and gone,and there is no reason NOW why I should delay any more about it.'
She put her hand into her breast,and took out a letter,which she opened.She put it into my hands.It ran thus:
'DEAR MASTER RICHARD,'My little child is dead,and your happiness is all I care about now.Your marriage with me is displeasing to your family,and I would be a burden to you,and in your way in the fine places,and among the great friends where you must be.You ought,therefore,to break the marriage,and I will sign whatever YOUwish,or your family.I will never try to blame you,Master Richard--do not think it--for I never deserved your love,and must not complain now that I have lost it;but I will always pray for you,and be thinking of you while I live.'
While I read this letter,I was satisfied that so far from adding to the poor girl's grief,a full disclosure of what had happened would,on the contrary,mitigate her sorrow,and deprive it of its sharpest sting.
'Ellen,'said I solemnly,'Richard O'Mara was never unfaithful to you;he is now where human reproach can reach him no more.'
As I said this,the hectic flush upon her cheek gave place to a paleness so deadly,that I almost thought she would drop lifeless upon the spot.
'Is he--is he dead,then?'said she,wildly.
I took her hand in mine,and told her the sad story as best I could.She listened with a calmness which appeared almost unnatural,until I had finished the mournful narration.She then arose,and going to the bedside,she drew the curtain and gazed silently and fixedly on the quiet face of the child:but the feelings which swelled at her heart could not be suppressed;the tears gushed forth,and sobbing as if her heart would break,she leant over the bed and took the dead child in her arms.
She wept and kissed it,and kissed it and wept again,in grief so passionate,so heartrending,as to draw bitter tears from my eyes.I said what little I could to calm her--to have sought to do more would have been a mockery;and observing that the darkness had closed in,Itook my leave and departed,being favoured with the services of my former guide.
I expected to have been soon called upon again to visit the poor girl;but the Lodge lay beyond the boundary of my parish,and I felt a reluctance to trespass upon the precincts of my brother minister,and a certain degree of hesitation in intruding upon one whose situation was so very peculiar,and who would,I had no doubt,feel no scruple in requesting my attendance if she desired it.
