What setting to rights of the cottage there was when Marks returned with the news! It was always tidy and clean, but now for the especial honour of the Squire's visit all its corners were ransacked and everything turned topsy-turvy. Mrs. Marks was still unable to help much in the work, but she dusted and tidied the cups and saucers, and knick-knacks, although they had not seen a speck of dust for days, and certainly not since she had been downstairs again; Sarah's arms ached with the scrubbing and scouring she was made to do in a certain given time, while her mistress stood by, scolding and finding fault by turns. Nothing was done well, or as it ought to be done; but then, as the girl said, Mrs. Marks was so finicking, there was no pleasing her, she should be glad enough when she was able to do the work for herself, and she could go home to her mother.
When Mr. Linchmore came, he scarcely rested in the newly swept parlour at all, but desired at once to be shown to the sick woman's room. With many apologies from Mrs. Marks at her sister's inability to rise and see him, she preceded him up stairs.
Jane was sitting propped up in bed with pillows, her pale face looking paler and more emaciated than usual. Mr. Linchmore's heart was touched with pity as he noted the care-worn, prematurely old face, with its deep lines telling of sorrow or sin. Sin! Surely if this woman's life had been sinful, what had he, with his strict principles of right, to do with such as her? What had she—as Marks assured him—to tell, that nearly concerned himself? His heart reverted to his mother. Was it of her she would speak? of her whose ungovernable temper had driven his father to seek with his children that happiness abroad that had been denied him at home? But then his mother had been mad, at least he had been taught to think that the one excuse for her strange conduct. How severe and tyrannical she had been, not only to his brother and himself, but to that sweet, uncomplaining sister, whose life had been, he truly believed, shortened through her violence, and yet again, when the passion was over, how fiercely loving, how vehemently passionate in her cravings for her children's love, which she alienated from her more and more each day. No; others might love and reverence the name of mother, but Mr. Linchmore's heart was stirred with no such feelings; only a vague sense of fear, a nameless dread of evil came across him as he fancied it might be of her Jane had to speak.
He drew near, and bent down kindly. "I fear you have been very ill," he said, "with the same fever that has wrought such desolation in my home."
"Yes, sir, I have been ill—am ill; but now it's more from remorse; from the guilt of a wicked, cruel heart, than this same fever you speak of."
There was a pause. Jane spoke with difficulty, her breath came quick and short, as though her heart laboured heavily under the load of sin she spoke of.
"Turn more to the light," she said, "so that I may see your face. So—that is well. Still like your mother, strangely like, with none of her hard passions or cruel hate. Your love might be fierce, burning, and strong, but unlike her you would sacrifice your own happiness to secure the well being of the one you love. Had she done so, what misery to her, what misery to me might have been spared?"
"Did you know my mother?" asked Mr. Linchmore.
"Tell him, Anne," said Jane, as Mrs. Marks held some wine and water to her pale lips, that seemed too feeble to utter another word.
"If you please, sir," said Mrs. Marks, dropping her deepest curtsey, "this is Tabitha, my sister 'Tabitha Jane,' who was brought up so kindly by your lady mother; but there, I don't wonder you don't remember her. I had a hard matter to myself, when I went over to Dean to fetch her, come four years ago this next Christmas."