CHAPTER XXXVI

A STARTLING STORY

If hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender it here; I do as truly suffer As e’er I did commit. SHAKESPEARE.

Great was the wonder in the drawing-room when Dr. Willet entered, and after a sweeping bow that took in the whole circle, went straight up to Leonidas Bruce and said:

“I am really sorry to break up this ‘goodlie companie,’ but ‘necessity has no law,’ and this particular case admits of no compromise. Mr. Bruce, I am here to ask you, your wife, and this young lady, Miss Emolyn, to come with me to the deathbed of my patient.”

“Who is it?” inquired the astonished man.

“Mrs. Ann Whitlock, the old woman whom I have been attending for the last few weeks at the Wilderness Manor-house; the same one to whom I was so suddenly called again this afternoon.”

“Oh, yes. Well, poor soul, if she is dying, I am sure I’m very sorry for her; but I can’t help it. I don’t know her the least in the world. Why, I have but just got home, you see; and I don’t know——”

“Oh, of course you don’t know anything at all about it; but your wife and this young lady both know the old woman who sends for them to her deathbed, and as they will not disregard her dying request, perhaps you will elect to go with them. Your presence is desirable, but not absolutely necessary.”

“Oh, of course I will go. Since these ladies were acquainted with the poor old creature I can partly understand her desire to see them,” said Leonidas Bruce good-naturedly.

“Then, as no time is to be lost, let me entreat the ladies to get ready for their ride immediately. The carriage is ordered,” said the doctor.

Full of conjecture as to the cause of the summons, Mrs. Bruce arose, drew Emolyn’s arm within her own, and left the drawing-room.

As the two women separated in the hall, the one to go to the parlor chamber, the other to go to the attic, Mrs. Bruce noticed that Em.’s eyes were full of tears.

“What! weeping, my love?” she exclaimed.

“Ah! she was very good to me. Always very good to me,” sighed the girl.

“‘But the angels weep when a babe is born, And sing when an old man dies.’

You should not weep for the death of the aged, my dear. What can she want with us, Em.? Ah! I understand how she may want you; but _me_? Long ago she nursed my uncle, it is true, yet I scarcely ever knew her.”

“I think, dear lady, that, as she knows you have me, she only wishes to see us both together, and perhaps commend me to your kindness. She _need_ not do that, of course, but she was always _very_ good to me.”

“That is it!” exclaimed the lady, and then she hurried off to her room, while Em. ran up to the attic.

In the meantime the ladies left in the drawing-room, Mrs. Catherine Bruce, and Miss Belinda Warde, came around to Dr. Willet for an explanation of this sudden night summons.

The good physician parried their questions as politely as he could, and was still evading them when the door opened and Commodore Bruce came in, all booted and spurred for riding, and exclaimed:

“Well, doctor, I am ready, you see! As you have ridden so much to-day I shall give you my seat in the carriage, old friend, and take your horse. No, now! Not one word of objection! I will have it so. Besides, I have ordered a second horse for Leonidas, so that I and my son may trot side by side, as we used to do when I was younger and he was smaller,” added the commodore as he drew on his gloves.

As he spoke Leonidas Bruce, equipped for riding, accompanied by his cousin, Ronald, re-entered the room.

The two ladies soon followed—Mrs. Leonidas Bruce in the dress she had worn on her short journey from Edengarden to The Breezes, and Em. in her boat cloak and hood.

“Well, we are all ready, I believe?” inquired the doctor.

The other members of the party assented, and after bidding good-evening to the three ladies and the one gentleman left behind, they went out the front door to the place where the carriage and the saddle horses were awaiting them.

Dr. Willet handed the two ladies into the carriage, then followed and took his seat at their side.

Leonidas Bruce assisted his father to mount his horse, then leaped into his own saddle and rode after the carriage, which had already started.

The commodore was soon by his son’s side.

And so they wound down the road leading down the mountainside and through the forest to the back road, and thence to the Wilderness Manor-house.

There was no moon, but the sky was perfectly clear, and the innumerable stars shone with a sparkling brilliancy that compensated for her absence.

The three passengers in the carriage spoke but little. Dr. Willet went to sleep. It was very rude of him to do so, but he was aged and tired. Mrs. Leonidas Bruce was absorbed in reverie. Em. was silently weeping and stealthily wiping away her tears. Em. had scarcely realized how much she loved the uncouth old creature who had been her nurse and companion all her young life and until within a few weeks. Yet these were tears of tender compassion rather than of bitter sorrow; tears, too, which Em.’s cheerful faith taught her were more natural than rational, since “death is but an orderly step in life,” and to die out of this sphere is to be born in a higher one.

The two men enjoyed _their_ ride. Neither of them took any more than a kindly interest in the dying woman they were going to see, so they talked of everything else than of her—of Lonny’s shipwreck, and rescue, and capture; of his experiences in the long years of his captivity; of his flight and escape, and his voyage home on the French ship, etc., etc., etc.

All these adventures Lonny had already related. But now, at his father’s request, he went over them again, as he was destined many times to repeat them at intervals for his father, his father’s friends and—their friends, for many years to come.

It was ten o’clock when they drew near a pile of dark buildings in the valley below them, which they recognized as the Wilderness Manor.

In a few minutes they were at the gates opening into the back courtyard under the shadow of the mountain, this being the nearer approach to the house from the direction of The Breezes.

Here John Palmer and his boys waited to receive them.

John led the party up to the house, while the boys took away the horses to the rear stables.

At the door of the house Susan Palmer received her late visitors.

She had been prepared by Dr. Willet, who had informed her of the unexpected return of the long missing Leonidas Bruce, so she showed no surprise at his appearance, and under the serious circumstances gave him only the general welcome extended to the whole party.

“Walk in here, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, opening the door of a well-warmed and lighted parlor, where a fine fire of hickory logs blazed in the broad fireplace, and two tall “mold” candles, in taller brass candlesticks, stood on the high mantel-shelf.

“Please sit down and make yourselves comfortable, while I take Em. up to see the poor soul, for so she desired me to do first of all,” added Mrs. Palmer as she placed chairs near the fire for her guests.

When they were seated she beckoned Em., who arose to follow her, then bowed to her guests, and left the room.

As soon as they reached the hall outside Susan Palmer astonished Em. by suddenly throwing her arms around the girl’s neck, bursting into tears, and exclaiming:

“Oh! my child, you’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same! You’ll love us all the same!”

“Dear mother, what is the matter?” inquired the girl in alarm.

“Oh! Em., say you will! Say you will!”

“Will _what_? I’ll do _all_ you wish, dear mother, only tell me _what_!” exclaimed the frightened girl.

“Love us just as much! Just as much, Em.! Oh, just as much!” sobbed the woman.

“My own dear mother,” murmured Em., caressing and soothing the excited creature, although she herself was frightened half out of her senses at the agitation she could not comprehend—“my own dear mother, I love you and shall always love you. Compose yourself. Do not doubt me. Is it because Commodore Bruce has consented that his nephew shall marry me? Have you already heard that, and do you think it could make any difference in my love for you? It could not, dear mother, not one bit!”

“Oh! no, Em., no! It isn’t _that_. I’m not such a fool as to take on so about _that_. Of course I knew you would marry some time. Besides, I hadn’t even heard of it. Oh! no, Em., it is not that! It is worse than that. Heaven forgive me, it is better than that. No, it is _worse_. Oh, Em.! Em.! Em.!”

And Susan Palmer fell to weeping.

“My own dear, dear mother, I never knew you to be so nervous in my life before. Surely you are not well. Oh, what _is_ the matter?” exclaimed the girl, her alarm rising to terror.

“You’ll hear soon enough, Em.! You’ll hear soon enough! But oh, do promise me you’ll love us all the same, all the same, whatever you hear!” said Susan Palmer, with a great sobbing sigh as she released the girl and wiped her own eyes.

“Won’t you tell me what it is, mother, dear?”

“No, Em. It ain’t for me to tell you. But oh! you will still call me ‘mother,’ and poor, dear, good, good John, who is so fond of you, ‘father’—won’t you, Em.?” she pleaded.

Em. could only look at the distressed woman in silent dismay—thinking of approaching illness, fever, delirium.

“You know you will call the gentleman and lady papa and mamma because children in high life call their parents that. But you will call me and poor old John plain mother and father as you always did—won’t you, Em.?”

“She is distressing herself about my possible marriage and my future mother and father-in-law,” thought Em.; and then she answered earnestly:

“_Always_, dear mother. Always, believe me! I will never call any one else father or mother but you and father!”

“That’s my loving heart! That’s my sweet, loving heart! You can call them ‘papa’ and ‘mamma,’ you know, and they’ll like that just as well, and even better, for that is fashionable and elegant, and polite, and so on. But oh, Em!”—with another burst of emotion—“it is just as if you were dead to us! Just as if you were dead! I wish—oh, I do wish that we had taught you to call us ‘daddy’ and ‘mammy,’ for then I should know you would never call any fine lady or gentleman _that_. Now, come upstairs, child, for I have kept you down here too long already. But oh, Em.! It is just like closing down the coffin-lid over your face to let you go now! We part now, we will never meet again in the same way, Em.,” she exclaimed, as she began slowly to climb the stairs, followed closely by the troubled and bewildered girl.

Not a word more was spoken between them until they reached the attic landing, when Mrs. Palmer opened the door of the sick-room and said:

“Go in there, Em.! Go in alone! Oh! my Lord! It is like lowering you into the grave! We will meet again! But not the same! Oh, nevermore the same.” She sighed as she sent Em. alone into the room and gently closed the door after her.

The sick chamber, as I mentioned once before, was a large upper room. It was now in obscurity, the smoldering hardwood fire in the fireplace, and the rustic lamp on the mantel-shelf giving but little light.

Em. went up to the old-fashioned four-poster at the upper end of the room, where Dr. Willet had already taken his place, and old Monica was waiting. The latter gave way as Em. approached the bed.

The dying woman was lying very still, on her back, with her wasted face level on the pillow, and her skeleton hands folded on her breast.

“Speak to her,” said Dr. Willet.

“Aunty Whitlock,” said Em., gently, bending over her.

The woman sighed, moaned, and opened her eyes.

“Aunty Whitlock, how do you do?” inquired Em.

The poor creature made several ineffectual efforts to articulate, and finally said, in an imperfect way:

“I—am—getting—well—fast.”

“Is she delirious?” inquired Em., in a whisper and with a startled look at the doctor.

“Oh, no, it is her way of speaking. She means that she is going—dying. Hush! She is trying to speak to you again. Bend low—bend your ear to her lips.”

The girl obeyed.

“Em.,” muttered the woman, so imperfectly that the listener could scarcely recognize her own name. “Em., my child.”

“Yes, Aunty Whitlock. I am listening—I hear.”

“Have I been—good to you—my dear?” she asked, in tones so faint and muffled that Em. scarcely gathered their meaning, but rather divined it, as she answered:

“Very, very good to me always, dear Aunty Whitlock.”

“I—_did_—save—your life.”

“Yes, I know you did, dear aunty! Mother has often told me you did.”

A cloud of trouble passed over the face of the dying woman, and her lips writhed in their efforts to utter the next words, which Em. bent her ear and strained her sense to hear.

“Yes—but not in that way—not as she thinks—did I save your life.”

There was silence and quick breathing for a few minutes, and then, with an effort, she resumed:

“When—you know all—forgive—because—I _did_ save your life.”

Em. stooped and kissed the old woman, and laid her fresh, living cheek against the faded and dying one.

“Now, doctor!” panted the woman.

Dr. Willet approached and bent over her.

“Let them come—quick—I’m passing.”

The doctor administered a restorative, and then left the room to bring the Bruces to the bedside of the fast sinking woman.

Em. remained standing by her, rubbing her cold hands.

In a few moments the doctor re-entered the room, bearing two lighted candles in his hand, and followed by Commodore Bruce, Leonidas and Emolyn and John and Susan Palmer.

The doctor drew a little stand to the bedside and placed the two candles upon it, and laid a folded paper beside them. Then he beckoned Emolyn Bruce to appear.

The lady put off her bonnet and shawl and went up to the bedside, closely followed by her husband.

The lady bent over the dying woman, saying:

“I am very sorry to see you in this way, Mrs. Whitlock. Do you know me?”

“You are Emolyn Wyndeworth—I saved your child’s life—I was always good to her—she will tell you so herself.”

“What does she mean?” inquired Leonidas, who had caught only one or two words of this faintly muttered speech.

Emolyn shook her head in doubt, and Dr. Willet said:

“Hush! You will know soon. Let me say a few words. When I came to this woman this afternoon she made a startling confession to me in the presence of John and Susan Palmer. I took the statement down from her dying lips, lest if I had delayed to do so it might have been too late. I took her mark and the signatures of the two Palmers as witnesses. I wish to have her acknowledge this confession to be the truth, under oath. Commodore Bruce, will you administer the oath?”

The old commodore, much wondering what he should hear next, said:

“Will you read it to her first?”

“No, there will not be time. I will read it afterwards.”

“Lift her up, then, somebody.”

John Palmer, being the strongest “body” present, went to the head of the bed, lifted the dying woman to a sitting posture, and supported her in his firm arms, with her back resting against his chest.

“This is her written statement,” said Dr. Willet, placing the folded paper in the hands of the commodore.

“Make—haste,” panted the woman, with difficulty.

The doctor poured out and administered a stimulant, which partially revived her.

“Do you know what you are about to do?” inquired the commodore.

“Yes—swear to—the truth of—my statement,” gasped the woman.

Commodore Bruce, in his capacity of magistrate, then administered the oath and exhibited the written statement with its signatures, which she recognized and acknowledged under oath.

“There! That will do! This necessary disturbance has shaken the last sands of her life. Leave her now to repose, and follow me down to the drawing-room, where I will read to you all this strange confession,” said the doctor.

John Palmer left his perch on the head of the bed and gently lowered the head of the dying woman to the pillow.

Susan tenderly adjusted the covering around her, and beckoned old Monica to come and resume her watch by the bed.

Dr. Willet took up the two lighted candles and led the way from the room, leaving the place in the twilight shadow and stillness best fitted for the sufferer.

The whole party repaired to the drawing-room, and seated themselves around the large circular center-table upon which Dr. Willet had placed the candles and the document.

When the little bustle, incident upon this movement, subsided, the doctor took up the paper and began to read the statement aloud to his almost breathless audience.

And then and there the astonished family of Commodore Bruce learned a secret they had never even suspected before, though doubtless my intelligent readers have divined it long ago.

The attested statement of the dying woman showed how she, Ann Whitlock, sick-nurse, while in the employment of Mrs. Malvina Warde, at Green Point, being tempted of the devil, did appropriate to herself certain valuable jewels belonging to the family, and being caught in the act by Mrs. Warde, did thenceforward fall, body and soul, into the power of that lady, who, by threats of prosecution and imprisonment did compel her, Ann Whitlock, to commit great sins. How, to effect her purpose, Mrs. Warde procured for Ann Whitlock, the position of sick-nurse in the Women’s Hospital in the city. How, on the thirtieth of April, 18—, she, Ann Whitlock, being driven of the devil in the shape of Malvina, procured certain drugs to be administered to Emolyn Wyndeworth, then living at Green Point, which drugs hastened the illness of that lady. How, on the morning of the first of May, while it was yet dark, and the household all in bed, she, being secretly admitted by Mrs. Warde to the sick chamber of Emolyn Wyndeworth, had, with the assistance of Malvina Warde, stolen away the new-born, healthy infant daughter of Emolyn Wyndeworth, and secretly conveyed it to the Women’s Hospital, and adroitly changed it for the still-born child of Susan Palmer, a patient in the ward then under her care. How, leaving the living infant by the sleeping woman, she had brought back the dead one and laid it on the bed with Emolyn Wyndeworth. How ever since that fatal night she had so suffered with remorse that nothing but the one thought that Mrs. Warde would certainly have destroyed the living child, if she herself had not substituted the dead one for it, could bring her any comfort; but that she compensated the child for the loss of its real mother by giving her to the best woman she knew in the world, and by being as good to her as she possibly could be. Finally, that she had meant to tell the truth on her deathbed, when she should be out of the power of her demoniac mistress.

That was all. Fortunately not a word had been said about the trial.