CHAPTER XLIII.

A HAPPY RECOVERY.

The perusal of this letter affected me powerfully. There was something solemn in the mere handling of a confession written by a woman long since dead--a woman who had been so cruelly wronged and had so cruelly suffered. It was like a voice from the tomb, and it was impossible to resist the conviction that forced itself upon my mind that it was the solemn, bitter truth.

I had never suspected that Jessie was in any way related to uncle Bryan, but it did not surprise me to learn it. The fact that she was my cousin brought with it no sense of pleasure; it gave me no claim on her affection. Rather would she be inclined to look with feelings of repugnance upon all who were connected with her by blood, for by the nearest of these her mother had been brought to misery and shame, and her own life had been made most unhappy; and it was not to be doubted that all her soul would rise in vindication of her mother's honour.

It was past midnight, and everything about me was very still. My mother was sleeping more peacefully than she had yet done through her illness, and I remarked with thankfulness that the distressed expression on her face was wearing away, and that she was beginning to look something like her old sweet self. Insensibly in her sleep her arm stole round my neck. I let it rest there for many minutes, and when I rose from her side and kissed her fingers, there was a soft smile upon her lips--the first unclouded smile I had seen there for many a day. It gave me hope and gladdened my heart.

I was in no humour for sleep, having had some rest during the day, and I had told Florry that I would sit up with my mother until the morning. I placed the letter I had been reading in my desk, and then, arranging the screen in such a manner that the light by which I worked should not fall upon my mother's face, and also in such a manner that when she opened her eyes they must rest upon me, I sat at my table and worked and thought. My work was noiseless, and I could do it without disturbing the stillness. I was thankful for that. I do not know in what way it came into my mind that there are numberless small things in life which we ought to be grateful for, but the thought came. Presently, while my hand and eyes were busy on delicate manipulations in the wood, my mind reverted to uncle Bryan and Jessie, and the strange, strange letter I had read. Could Jessie ever forgive her father? Never, I thought. The unkindnesses inflicted upon herself she might have been eager to forgive when she made the discovery that she had a father living, but the wrong inflicted upon her mother was past forgiveness. Truly, the dead wife had punished the living husband with a cunning hand. But it was a just blow that she had struck. She had shown no vindictiveness; for had he behaved kindly to the girl to whom he had given the shelter of his home, Jessie would never have been made acquainted with her mother's wrongs. Yes, it was just, but it was terrible.

Terrible indeed. To find a father only to hate him. To find a father, and in the discovery to gain the knowledge that his conduct to her mother might have brought lasting shame and disgrace upon her own good name.

And he? How did he feel it? The words he addressed to me in his letter to my mother were very clear in my mind. Too late I see my folly and my crime. Many things that Christopher said to me were true. I humbly ask his forgiveness, and I humbly pray that the happiness he said I did my best to destroy may yet fall to his lot. If he will picture me, an old man with a bleeding heart, into whose life but few rays of sunshine have passed, pleading to him, he may soften towards me. Perhaps he may believe that I loved him; if he does believe it, he will believe the truth.'

I did believe it; I felt that it was true. I asked myself whether all the fault was his, whether he was entirely to blame because it was not in his nature to show love in its sweetest way. I recalled the words he had used when he described to me and my mother the home in which he spent his childhood's days. I raised up a picture of his mother, a weak-minded woman, ruled as with a rod of iron by her husband, ruled even in her affections by a man whom his own son could not respect, knowing him to be a hypocrite. The son must have learned bad lessons in such a home. Was it not to the son's credit that he refused to be moulded by such influences? But if the son had had such a mother as mine----

Ah, if an influence so sweet had sweetened his life--if an affection so pure had purified his mind--how different it might have been with him! The cobwebs of scepticism and bitter distrust might have been swept from his soul. He might have grown into a good and noble man. For I recognised qualities in uncle Bryan's nature far higher than those with which the men I was acquainted with were gifted. My blind unreasoning anger against him was gone, and I felt only pity for the desolate old man. I pictured him, as he had desired me to do, an old man with a bleeding heart, into whose life but few rays of sunshine had passed--an old man who in his youth had been soured, misdirected, misjudged, his rare qualities and gifts turned against himself; and I pitied him with a full heart, and most freely forgave him.

At this point I recalled everything in his character that spoke in his favour--his love of flowers, his love of justice, which had something heroic in it, his contempt for meanness and roguery, his gentle behaviour towards my mother, by whom alone he was properly understood. He would have been astonished had he known my thoughts.

In this better mood I continued my work. Tick, tick, tick, went the little clock on the mantelpiece, and the sound seemed to add to the stillness instead of disturbing it. Once, upon raising my eyes to my mother's bed, I fancied that she was awake and was observing me. I stole towards the bed, but her eyes were closed; I kissed her softly, and resumed my work. The wood-block I was engaged upon represented a woman standing by a field after the corn had been cut and gathered. It was sunset, and the woman, who was between forty and fifty years of age, was gazing sadly and mournfully at the setting sun and the bare field, with only the stubble left on it. I knew the story which the picture was intended to illustrate. The woman had been parted from her son, who was in a distant land, many thousands of miles across the sea, and the last news she had received from him represented him as being beset by misfortune and sickness. She was standing now, thinking mournfully of the times when she and he were together; and the sun, setting among sad clouds, and the cornfield, shorn of its golden glory, were in fit keeping with her thoughts. Another picture drawn on the wood, and which I had not yet commenced to engrave, lay before me. The scene was the same, and the figure of the woman was there, but the time and circumstances were different from the last. It was morning in the opening of summer; the corn was ripening, and lying on the ground at the mother's feet was the son, restored to her in health. Insensibly, as I proceeded with my work, my thoughts reverted to a certain time in my childhood when my mother toiled during the day and sat up late in the night working for me. How many a night had I seen her sitting at the table in our poorly-furnished one room, stitching until daylight dawned to earn bread for her child! The songs she used to sing softly to herself came to my lips, and I murmured them almost unconsciously, while the tears ran from my eyes. My heart was throbbing with exquisite tenderness towards my mother, and I thought that never in all my reading had I met with a woman so thoroughly good and pure and true. I covered my eyes with my hand to shut out the aching fear that, with the force of a visible presence, was creeping upon me and whispering that the priceless blessing of her love was lost to me for ever; but the action brought a deeper darkness to my soul. It lasted but a moment, thank God! for suddenly my name was uttered in a soft clear tone.

'Chris!'

My heart almost ceased to beat as the sound of my mother's voice, with its old sweet cadence, fell upon my ear; but I remembered the caution which the doctor had given me, and I quietly proceeded with my work.

'Yes, mother.'

'What are you doing, dear child?'

'Working, mother.'

I scarcely dared to raise my eyes, and I waited anxiously for her to speak again.

'It is late, my child.'

'Not very, mother. The night was so beautiful, and I had such a long rest this morning, that I thought I would work for an hour or two upon some pictures I have to get done quickly.' I spoke calmly and softly and cheerfully. 'I thought you were asleep, mother.'

'I have lain for some time watching you, my darling, and wondering whether this was not all a dream.'

'A dream, mother!' I said, and I went to her side, and passed my arm under her neck. 'No, it is not a dream.' She gazed at me long and earnestly.

'Where are we, dear child?'

'In the country, at Hertford. You were not very well, and I brought you down here to nurse you into health again.'

She pondered over these words. 'You were singing my songs, my dearest'

'I hope they did not disturb you, mother.'

'What sweeter music could I hear, dear child? But what made you sing them?'

'I was thinking of the old times, mother, when you and I were together, and when you used to work late in the night for me. There was a prayer in my heart while I was singing.'

'What prayer, my dearest?'

'That I might be able to repay you by my love for the love you have given me all my life. That God would be merciful to me, and would give me the power to show you that I love you with all my heart and soul, and to prove that as no son ever had a more loving mother than you have been to me, so no mother ever had a son who was filled with a deeper love than I have for you.'

'Dear child! darling child!' she said, with deep-drawn sighs of happiness, what can I say to you for your goodness to me? I do not deserve it! I do not deserve it!' She folded me in her arms, and I lay by her side with my face pressed close to hers.

'If you say that, mother, I shall think you do not believe me.'

'No, no, dear child, I do believe it. These are tears of joy that I am shedding. And we two are alone, darling!'

'Yes, mother, and I only want one thing to make me quite happy.'

'Tell it me, child?' she asked, a little anxiously.

'To see you well again, mother, that is all. Then I shall go on with my work, and we shall get along famously together. But you mustn't talk any longer; you must go to sleep. Shall I sing you to sleep as you used to do to me? Do you remember that dear old song? Well, but _I_ must not talk any longer. I am going to lie here; first let me put out the light.' When I returned to the fond prison of her loving arms, I said softly, 'I shall only say two or three words more. First, mother, you must promise me to get quite well. Promise, now, for my sake.'

'I will try to, dear child; I think I shall; I feel strong already.'

'Then you must tell me that you are happy, dear mother.'

'Ah, my darling, there is not a happier mother in the world. Blessed with such a son, I should be ungrateful to God if I were not.'

'And now, mother, not another word----'

'But draw the counterpane round you, darling; you will take cold else.'

'There, it is done; feel: and I'm quite warm. Good-night, mother. One kiss--two--three; and before you can count three more I shall be asleep.'

I pretended to be, but I remained awake, listening to her sighs of happiness. Every now and then she passed her fingers over my face, and over my eyes, to learn if they were closed. After a time she fell asleep herself, and her composed peaceful breathing seemed in itself an assurance of returning health.