Recommended to mercy

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MERCY." " He laid his hand upon her head, and pronounced her absolution."— Page 169. MEBCY." BY THE AUTHOR OF "TAKEN UPON TRUST." " Speak of me as I am ; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice." Shakespeare. FOURTH EDITION. LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1863. [The Right of Translation is reserved.] LONDON : BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAR3. DEDICATION. To the Readers of this, not wholly imaginary, but somewhat hastily-written Tale, these pages are dedi cated ; and if, during their perusal, it should occur to some, that zeal in a good cause may have outrun dis cretion, the Author can only hope that a thousand faults may be forgiven, in the name of the one virtue to which he has dared to link them. London, March 8th, IS 62.

Chapter I

' ' In life's last scene what prodigies surprise ; Fears of the brave, and follies of the wise ! " Dr. Johnson. " For death looks ugly when the view is near." — Crabbe. The sun shone from a cloudless summer sky on a darkened window of the " Great City." It was mid-day, and the hum of men was busy in the vast human hive : out on the wing were the toilers for the golden harvest : fluttering abroad were the sippers of summer sweets : but within that darkened chamber lay one whose work of life was nearly finished, and the last sands in whose glass were reduced to a few swiftly dropping grains. Let us look into the room. It is a sumptuous one, for soft carpets cover the floor, and costly furniture is spread about ; the bed is draperied with purple, and on it a rich man is dying between sheets of finest linen.

He has not lain there long, for but yesterday he was hale and strong, and death seemed as far from him as from the many friends by whom he had been greeted in his morning walk. He knows he is to die ; not at some indefinite period, but on that day, and on the bed on which he lies, to be removed no more till hireling hands shall place him in the " narrow house and dark," a mass of senseless clay. Yes ! he has been told that his very hours are numbered, and, knowing this, he looks into his heart, striving to familiarise himself with the fact, and realise the conviction. B He is in the full possession of his faculties, and bis memory ia unimpaired ; yet his mind refuses to dwell upon the certainty that his soul is about to be required of him, and that on the morrow he will be that dread thing which men call a corpse.

Yesterday— and how long it seemed !— he had left his house on a mission of pleasure, as a rich man should ; his horse (it was the one he prized the most) was led to his door at the appointed moment, and he had mounted the animal with a light heart, and with no presentiment of coming evil. The scene rises vividly before him now : he sees the hot sun's rays gleaming fiercely on the broad white pavement, and glancing on the glossy coat of his favourite mare ; and his own sensations as he sprang into the saddle are lived over again with the distinctness of reality. And now he is riding rapidly on towards a western suburb, and is approaching a house wherein abides a woman who is watching for his coming. She has been his friend for years, and yet his thoughts are full of her, and of the day's happiness he has planned for her.

He pictures the bright glow of pleasure that will spread over her fair face, as he describes the long hours they are to pass together under spreading trees, and on the velvet turf of royal pleasure-grounds ; and, last delight of all, the floating homewards on the moonlit river, with the countless stars above them, and no sound more harsh than the ripple of the waters and whispered words softly spoken from her heart to his. In strange contrast with those glowing memories is the gloom that surrounds him now. He is stretched upon his bed, powerless and inert, for he retains no sensation in his lower limbs, whilst his hands, and even the muscles of his neck, can with difficulty perform their wonted functions. A great grief has seized him, but it is a grief in which there is as yet no mixture either of horror or of fear, for a species of bewilder ment clouds his reasoning faculties.

" "What," he mentally asks, " is Death ? " He feels no pain ; a fall from his horse has injured the spine : of that he is fully cognizant ; and also that paralysis is creeping slowly and surely up towards the Citadel of Life : but the change from the full vigour of manhood has been so rapid, and his hold on existence is still so strong, that the known world seems even yet to be his, while the very belief in a future and a different state of being eludes his mental grasp. He hears a murmur of the living world outside, as it rises from the thronged and busy streets, and is aware (silent and unnoticing as he lies there) that he is not alone. No ; while life lasts there will be one faithful friend, who will not leave him to wrestle single-handed with the dread images which are beginning to surround his death-bed, and that mingle so curiously with the wretched trifles that belong to mortals : for those trifles are harassing his parting hours grievously, hanging upon his solemn thoughts like cobwebs on a grand and awful picture, defacing and obscuring it.

All things that were wont to occupy the leisure moments of his prosperous and somewhat aimless existence come crowd ing upon him now, and working dire confusion in his brain. What to him will be the morrow ? He will be in another world then, or haply sleeping the sleep that knows no waking ; and yet he is still, though by no wish or will of his, busying himself concerning the trivial interests with which he has no more to do than the man who had died and been buried a century ago. It was passing strange ; but he detected him self at one moment in the very act of considering how he could best dispose of the animal whose scurvy trick had brought him to this disagreeable pass. And then there flashed across him a sense of his own neglect, in forgetting to inquire whether "Miranda" (and never had the mare's name seemed more familiar to him) had received any injury in the fall that had so disgraced her : while as to her ultimate destination he found S07*ne difficulty in making up his mind ; doubting whether at Tattersall's she would " fetch" more than . . .

Ah ! poor fool ! poor mortal ! No more will " Sunday shine a betting day to you." There are no more earthly "settling days " to which you may look forward ; and your place in the ' ring" will know you no more. The confusion of ideas, which B " recommended to mercy. 4 thoughts such as these created in a brain already weakened by his accident, terrified him into a sudden suspicion that his mind was wandering ; and a cold perspiration breaking out over his forehead, he trembled violently. " God have mercy upon me," he exclaimed with sudden vehemence, "for I am losing my senses." A gentle touch (need I say it was a woman's ?) rested on his shoulder, and recalled him to himself; and so for a passing moment was comforted, and his nervous tremor ceased. Ah ! how true is the oft-repeated saying, that in scenes of sorrow and of sickness, from the sight of which bold men shrink appalled, women seem in their most fitting place !

Even the weak and foolish among them find that their powers strengthen in the hour of trial, and that their nerves become more fitted for their work ; and when a man is poor and helpless, and sick and miserable, he will rather turn for assistance and consolation to the woman he has wronged and slighted, than to the boon companion who, in happier days, had feasted at his board and called himself his friend. The remembrance of his mother comes strongly upon the suffering man, when humbled and prostrate he is awaiting his final summons. He turns back, and through the long vista of years he sees her there. She looks as she did in the early dtiys, long years ago, when in his fretful childhood she laid him down upon his little bed, with a mother's kiss upon his lips and a mother's blessing on his head ; he hears her, as she patiently teaches him to lisp his infant prayer, and he sees her, as she shed tears of agony over his first great fault; ever at hand whenever sympathy was called for, or useful service required ; forgetting herself in her constant memory of those she loved, a memory that fills her mind throughout the day, and keeps it wakeful during the watches of the night.

In sorrow and in anguish does a woman bring a man into the. world : the life she has given is, alas ! but too often for her one long trial ; and when the last scene that closes the sad eventful history comes, in trouble and in anguish deeper still, she strives to smooth his passage to eternity ! "Helen," exclaimed the dying man to the woman whose " recommended to mercy." 5 loving hand rested on his shoulder, " Helen ! speak to me — and speak aloud — for whispers worry me, and I love your voice ; but, above all, give me light, and let me once more see the sun of heaven, that shines alike on the just and the unjust." The last words were muttered almost inaudibly ; but the woman's anxious sense had caught their import, and she sighed heavily as, moving towards the window, she prepared to do his bidding.

" Helen, this must be a dream — a dream from which I long to waken." For all reply, the woman, bowing down her head, murmured faintly, " No dreain, alas! Oh ! my poor Philip ! my poor love ! " and a sob rising in her throat was checked with difficulty. There was a word (and that word was Death) which was clutching at her heart, as if with fingers of ice ; but she tried to seem (poor soul !) as though she were still hopeful ; and looking down on him, she smiled faintly. They were silent again ; not making the most of the few moments granted to them, but grieving inwardly. The midsummer sun, which shines as brightly on the grave as on the cradle, came struggling through the half-closed shut ters and drawn curtains; tracing a narrow stream of light along the room in which the motes danced merrily, while summer insects, disporting themselves on the window-frames, hummed noisily in the sunshine.

Above these mocking sights and sounds the woman's voice at length arose. " You feel no pain, love ? Tell me at least that you do not suffer." " Pain ? No. Eor me pain of body is, I imagine, nearly over : lay your hand on me — press hard upon my limbs. Nellie, my poor girl, I feel your touch no more than I do that of the fly that settles on the coverlid. I am more than half-dead already, for it is only here that I retain sensation ;" and he moved his head slowly. " But kiss me, my darling, for I would gladly feel the touch of your warm lips once more." She leant over him, and pressed a kiss oil his cold damp forehead. It was a solemn, almost a parting caress, one which " RECOMMENDED to mercy." 6 sent a sharp stinging pain through Helen's heart, as she turned aside to hide the grief she could not repress.

"Nay, Helen, this must not be ! " said Philip. " My time here is short, and I cannot afford to lose one look of the face I am so soon to leave. Call up all your courage : you were ever a brave woman. Do you remember ? — " She laid her hand softly, but firmly, on his lips : for the present was indeed no fitting moment in which to evoke memories that, alas ! were far from sinless, and she felt her boasted courage fail her as she called to mind the laws they had outraged, and the avenging Deity they had so long offended with impunity. It was a fine and rather an intellectual head that lay upon the pillow. On it middle age had but slightly set its signet, and across the broad brow there were but few lines by which the footsteps of Time could be traced. Helen kept her eyes fixed upon the pale face, and marked its fitful changes mournfully.

Again there swept across his brain strange visions of those whom he had known in days gone by ; and figures, fanciful and swiftly changing as in a dream, flitted between his sight and reality. At length, of these untangible shadows, one stood out from among the rest, and, seemingly endowed with form and substance, faced him boldly. The shape was that of a woimin, pale and thin and worn ; the dress was rich and flowing, and on her transparent hands bright gems were sparkling. She was not beautiful, but had a sweet and melancholy face that dwelt upon his reproachfully. He could not escape her eyes ; for whether he closed his own to shut them out, or turned upon his pillow to avoid them, there they still were, with a fixed gaze, cold aud ghastly. At length, to break the nightmare-like spell that bound him, be cried aloud in his agony : " Helen ! for the love of Heaven, staud between us ; for this is more than I can endure !

" She almost lost her breath with fear ; so terrible was the voice that called to her in its mortal terror j and then, pressing closely to him, and showering kisses on his poor torpid hands^, " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY." 7 she entreated him, by the love he bore her, to be calm, and tell her what was the thing he dreaded. " Calm ! " he cried, with what was well-nigh a shriek ; " Calm ! when she has come to me for justice ? Calm ! when the wife I have wronged is calling to me to save her from disgrace ? Go, pray to God ! He may pardon you, but my portion is in the lake burning with fire and brimstone, into which you have helped to drag me ; " and with a shudder of despair he turned on her a look of loathing and of horror. The faithful creature still clung about him, and would not be repulsed. But was this, she asked herself, to be the reward of the life-love she had given him ?

Oh no — sinner as she had been, surely God would be more merciful, and would restore the companion of her errors to a sense of all she had done and suffered for him ; and so, kneeling by his side, she prayed humbly and fervently to the God who is mighty to pardon — prayed for the one to be taken, and for the other that was to be left alone. Exhausted by the mental struggle he had undergone, the unhappy man lay for awhile still, and almost breathless, the woman continuing patiently to bathe his clammy brow, and to administer the restoratives that had been prepared for him. Her gentle touch was better than medicine, recalling him to saner thoughts and softer feelings. " My poor love," he faintly murmured, " am I cruel to you ? God knows I should not be, for you have been kinder, far kinder to me than I deserve ; and I have made you but a poor return;" and he laid his cheek upon her arm, and rested there. ' Oh !

Philip," she moaned, " this is too hard — it cannot be that we are to part thus ? " "Nay," he said, "do not weep so bitterly" (for her tears were falling now like rain), " I have much to say, much to ask of you. You will not mind taking some trouble for me, Helen, when I am in my grave ? " and a faint shadow of a smile flitted across his features; for well he knew the needless ness of his question, and how strong and untiring would be her will to serve him. " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY." " Trouble, Philip ! only give me something that I can do for you ; let me feel that I am working for you, or I shall die ; for what have I else to live for ? " " Live for me, dear Helen, as faithfully as you have ever lived, and let my last wishes remain in your memory as a tie to bind those whom Death has striven to part."

"Eoryou! oh, Heaven ! but I am powerless and despised! a lost, friendless creature, who is alone upon God's earth! " And have you no reproaches, my poor Helen, for him who has made you desolate ? and for which and for my many sins may God in His mercy pardon me ! But, Nellie, poor and friendless as you think yourself, you may aid me still, and give some peace to my dying hours ; all I ask is a promise, a vow I would rather call it, that in all things you will obey me, both to the letter and in the spirit." " As the Almighty may look with pity on me, when my last hour of trial comes, so will I — as far as in me lies — be true to you," said Helen, solemnly. He hung upon her words eagerly, and when her vow was spoken, he, still resting on her arm, addressed her in smothered tones : — " Helen, you know all the history of my past life, and I have not now to tell you of the cruel mystery that veils the conduct of my wife ; nay, start not, dearest ; you will not be jealous of the love of a dying man?" and, gazing at her wistfully, the same faint smile, sweet and almost un earthly, flickered across his face.

"I may go on, may I not? I may trust that my best friend will have patience with me? " Helen was very human ; and having believed and hoped that his last thoughts of earthly things would have been for her, it was hard to find that another and a more absorbing interest was paramount in his breast ; she gave, however, no sign of her disappointment, but in a steady voice bade him command her in everything. " Helen," he continued, " I have seen my wife,— seen her here, and but a moment since. She was close to me, standing "RECOMMENDED TO MERCY." 9 at my pillow, and with trembling lips, as though whispering words of menace in my ears." " A dream, dear Philip ; believe me that it was a mere delu sion, for your commands have been strictly obeyed, and all entrance to the room denied. It is the opiate you have taken that has conjured up these unreal visitors ; strive to forget them, love, — to forget them, imd to rest."

" There is no rest for me, no rest even in the grave of the weary, for her sad face will haunt me there." "__/_rface! Oh, Philip!" " It should be yours, Nellie, you would say ; but no, you can grant me your forgiveness ere I go ; while she, — Oh! Helen, we parted in anger, and now the longing for reconcilia tion comes too late. Speak again to me ; tell me that other men would have acted as J acted — would have believed as I believed." " Indeed they would. It must have been hard to decide otherwise." But Helen spoke hesitatingly ; for with all her wish to comfort him, having no clue to guide her to the opinion that would best effect her object, she was as one groping in the dark. " Then I may trust that I was not wholly unjust, and that my conduct — but alas! there is poor consolation in the thought that my proceedings were justified by guilt of hers ; and some thing tells me now that I was perhaps too hasty, and that I may have utterly wronged her by my suspicions.

Often of late such an idea has crossed my mind ; but, presuming on the morrow that might never be mine, I banished the thought as troublesome and oppressive. Since I have lain here, many a word and look of hers that during the period of those terrible discoveries seemed to bring conviction to my mind, have forced themselves upon me, and taught me once more to doubt. Helen, I may have been in error; I may, in the angry sensitive ness for what men call their honour, have been wimtiug in the faith that would have saved us all ; and therefore at this, my eleventh hour, have received a warning that I dare not neglect. Nellie, I am fast hastening where doubts and suspicions will " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY. 10 harass me no more ; but to the faithful love of her I leave behind me, I delegate the duty that I have so culpably neglected.

Helen, your task must be to investigate into the truth or falsehood of all and everything connected with Lady Thornleigh's former life. God grant that you may prove her innocent ; but if so, heavy indeed must be my guilt." The bed shook with the intensity of his emotion, and she, fearing that the final crisis was approaching, bent over him m speechless agitation ; but her alarm was premature, for Death was not yet ready for his prey, and after the lapse of a few minutes, Philip spoke agsun : — " Forgive me, if I pain you. Remember that she was my wife, and that I loved her dearly once. If I have wronged her — foully, cruelly wronged her, — my spirit will not rest till tardy justice be done to the woman whose existence I have embittered, and to the children whose opening years I have darkened with shame.

Her young sister, too — poor pretty Alice — methinks I see ner now, and hear her beseeching voice, vainly imploring me to believe, and to have mercy on my wife. But I was deaf to their prayers ; I was worse than deaf, I was inhuman ; and turning those helpless women from my doors, I loaded them with scorn, heaping insult on the mother of my children, and on the wife to whose protestations and oaths of innocence I refused all credit. Truly there were no bounds to my virtuous indignation, and verily I have had my reward." There was a pause, which the sympathising woman knew not to how to break, and after a few moments he continued thus : — " My time is short, love ; very short for all I have to do ; and I have much to say while power of speech is granted me. My words come thick and with difficulty now, Helen, but you can comprehend my meaning, however confusedly it may be conveyed to you.

Many obstacles will lie in your path, and years may possibly elapse before your work is over ; but let no difficulties deter you, and no opposition frighten you from your duty. In no other soul that lives would I repose a con- " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY." 11 fidence so sacred and so entire ; and on the disinterestedness of no other friend could I so truly rely as on yours. When, therefore, the innocence (for the proofs of which you will dili gently seek) is firmlj* estabbshed, and in the opinion of the good, and even in that of the world, the stain on her reputation is removed ; if my wife be proved to be falsely accused, and if her honour come out brightly from the ordeal it will undergo, then by you, and you alone, must restitution be made, and full amends be offered to her and to her children."

" By me ! Surely, Philip, you cannot mean this ? The whole world will cry out ' Shame ! ' upon you, if such a one as I be made the judge of a woman's conduct and the arbi tress of her fate." " And think you, Nellie, that I owe no reparation to you, who have suffered injuries at my hands, so deep and lasting ? If in your humility you have forgotten claims so strong, it the more becomes the offender to remember them, and to show to the world how entirely you are trusted and honoured. To you then, dearest, whose love has never failed me, to you who have suffered reproach and endured deep insult at the hands of the worst enemy that ever woman had, I have bequeathed both riche3 and power, knowing that in your hands they will not be abused." " I am very grieved — " began Helen. " Nay, hear me to the end, and mark well my words.

My will is in my lawyer's hands, and by its provisions you become possessed (with the exception'of the small proportion that is entailed with the Abbey) of the whole property I leave behind me at my death. This shocks you ; I see it, and am not sur prised, but I will hear of no refusal, and listen to no thanks. To whom do I owe so deep a debt of gratitude and affection ? Eor you, my Helen, have never deceived me; " and there was unspeakable tenderness in the feeble voice that testified to the constancy of her true woman's love. But Helen could not be silent. " Philip," she exclaimed, " pardon me, if I seem to disregard your wishes, but indeed this must not be ; nor can I allow you to do this unjust thing. " RECOMMENDED TO MERCY. It is not by me that your wife and children shall be wronged ; and Oh ! believe that I never coveted your wealth, nor tried to supplant them in your affections."

" Indeed, I know it, dear Helen, for have not the proofs of your unselfish devotion been without number ? Nor is it the least among them that you accept this last charge, and this most grave responsibility. The fortune you will inherit is but left to you conditionally, to pass from your hands under the circumstances I have explained : but under these only. I am rich, Helen. I have money enough and to spare, while they (for aught I know) may be destitute of the comforts which habit has made necessary to them. She may be crushed by shame and poverty, mtiy be sick even, or in prison, and yet I say to you that such retribution (if she be guilty) is not equal to her deserts ; and that I would let her die, ay, let her rot, and her children with her, if she have brought this shame upon her head, and this humiliation on my name."

" Hush, Philip," cried the dismayed woman. " Hush, for I will not listen to such words ; you are carrying your angry feelings with you to the grave, and heaping misery on the head of her who, if she have wronged you, will pine to hear that with your latest breath you pronounced her pardon." " It will be pardon for my offences that will be needed, if, as I earnestly hope, your efforts be rewarded with success. But enough — you cannot change my resolution, and do but waste your words — all my possessions become yours to-morrow, Helen, with the understanding that should her fame be cleared, and her son, my boy, be permitted yet to hold up his head without shame, save for him who insulted the mother that bore him, then it will be for my noble-hearted Helen to restore to them the blessing of wealth, and with it the respect and con sideration of society.

And for you, dear one," he added, feelingly and most sadly, " what can I say, and what can I offer that you will accept ? At least may I not hope that you will retain enough from my abundance to keep you safe, and (when time has effaced my image) happy in your independence of the world that has so buffeted you? You are mine Helen still; mine only, and for ever;" and he looked inquiringly, and almost beseechingly, in her face. Helen was deeply touched, feeling that for her his heart clung to earth and to earthly affections, and that human jealousy for her future, when his mouldering form would be wasting in the tomb, had dictated his last words. His gold was as nothing ; ay, worse than nothing to her, for in it she saw the wages of iniquity ; but the belief that he had loved her to the end was a legacy of great price ; and the poor weak woman, weak with all her fancied strength, pledged her faith to him anew, while she gloried in this last proof of his affection.