University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER THIRTEENTH.
THE HISTORY TOLD BY THE DYING WOMAN.
PART II.

Not many moments after this scene. Doctor
Reuben and the young woman entered the room
on the lower floor together. The Doctor had
assumed his overcoat and broad-rimmed hat;
he was evidently prepared for a journey.

“You do not intend to return home to-night
Doctor,” said the young woman, as she paused
near the door, while he advanced toward the
light.

“Certainly; I have many patients to attend
to, early in the morning,” was the reply —
“By-the-bye, Ann, will thee brew me another
warm drink. Yet hold — come here friend
Ann —”

As he lifted the broad rimmed hat from his
head, the young woman advanced to the light.
For the first time we can gaze freely upon Dr.
Reuben's face. The forehead is wide, but the
top of his head is perfectly flat. The eyes are
large, in color a cold glassy azure, and protruding
until they are in a line with his brows.
Add to these features, a nose bold and prominent,
a wide mouth with thin lips, a chin large
and square, and you will have a faint idea of
the peculiar expression of Dr. Reuben's face.

As the young woman came within the circle
of the light, it might be seen, that her eyes unnaturally
bright, shone from a face which was
stamped with a corpse-like pallor.

“Ann Clarke,” and as he spoke in a sweet
and even voice, the Doctor's protruding eyes
emitted a glance which penetrated the young
woman to the soul — “Ann Clarke I have a
word to say to thee. When a young woman,
unmarried, has placed herself in a Doctor's
power, by destroying a life which is the fruit
of her passions — does thee hear?”

Ann with her eyes cast to the floor, stood
trembling from head to foot. She was silent.

“Why in that case, Ann Clarke, the young
woman aforesaid, should never think of mixing
any white dust with the punch of the Doctor
aforesaid. Does thee understand? Especially
if that white dust should look and smell like
arsenic. Do my words seem plain to thee?”

Before these words were completed Ann
fell at his feet, her eyes closed, her limbs
stiffened, as if in death.

Laughing heartily to himself, Doctor Reuben
resumed his broad brim, and left the room and
the house. In a few moments the sound of
his horse's hoofs echoed on the midnight air.

When Ann recovered her senses, she found
Arthur Bayne bending over her, his cheeks
flushed, his eyes brilliant with an unnatural
joy.

“Give me joy, my friend,” he cried, “Give
me joy. Alice survives, and her child will
also live. But you are worn out: this late
watching has been too much for you. Take
a little sleep Ann — I myself will watch while
you sleep. Dr. Reuben told me that I need
have no fear for Alice—”

Assisted by the hand of Arthur Bayne, the
young woman rose from the floor, and took
her seat by the table, by the light of the waning
lamp.

“God bless us! What ails you Ann?” and
Arthur started back at the sight of her face.
“You are terribly changed within an hour. I
scarce can recognize you —”

Ann, whose face stamped with a livid pallor,
was compressed in every line, as with the
resolution of despair, raised her lack-lustre
eyes to the face of the young Merchant, and
said in a low voice —

“Sit by me for a few moments, Mr. Bayne,
and I will tell you all.”

Her tone filled Arthur with a feeling of terror
which he could not analyze.

“All? What mean you?”

“All,” she continued, “And when all is told,
you may spurn me from your doors, or murder
me if you like, but speak I must, and
now.”

Clad as he was in a dressing gown, the
young Husband sank in a chair, his noble face
manifesting a sudden interest in every lineament.

“When you were married, Arthur Bayne,
some three years ago, your wife gave me, her
poor relation, a home —”

“Do not speak of it Ann. You have been
to Alice friend, nurse, and sister. Rather
speak of the vast debt of kindness we — Alice,
myself, our children — owe to you.”

A smile crossed the young woman's face.
Such a smile, as reminds you of sunshine
playing over the face of a corse.

“A vast debt, indeed!” she continued, with

an accent of singular bitterness — “Hear me
first, and then you can estimate the amount of
this debt at your leisure.”

With a voice that never faltered, and an eye
that never once changed its glassy lustre, Ann
Clarke, “the poor relation,” then uttered these
words:

“This is no time for woman's modesty;
this is not the hour for maidenly shame. You
think me a pure and innocent girl. Know
once for all that I am a lost and guilty woman.
Nay! Do not start, and gather that look of incredulity
upon your face. Hear me — I shall
be brief — and then form your own judgment.
It is not for myself that I care, but for you and
yours —”

“Ann! You are surely in a dream —”

“A little while before your marriage, I became
acquainted with a young man who
bore the name of Lemuel Gardiner. It was
before my mother died, when I lived in a narrow
court, and attempted to gain bread and
shelter by the hard slavery of the needle. This
Gardiner was a young man — not without
good looks, and yet not pre-eminent for manly
beauty. But his voice was low and smooth;
his eyes always shone with an expression of
quiet sympathy. He became — it matters not
how — a visiter to our home. He won my
love. We were then too poor to think of
marriage. He was the only friend I had in
the world. Blame me if you will, taunt me
with my shame, but the truth must be told. I
became his, and without marriage.”

An expression of wonder and compassion
stole over Arthur's face.

“Poor as I was, I had yet rich relations,
who would be horror-stricken at the story of
my shame. Poor as I was, I yet feared the
jibe and the scorn of the great world. While
my shame was a secret in my own home, I
did not care for the morrow. But at the same
moment, when I became conscious that a new
life was throbbing within my breast, I was
told by my lover that he could never redeem
my shame, with a marriage vow. He was a
Priest. Lemuel Gardiner was a name assumed
for the occasion. He was a Priest of my own
Church —”

“A Priest! It is incredible! A Priest of
the Catholic Church —”

“Spare that look and accent of horror. He
was indeed a Priest, at the time of which I
speak, but since then, he has been degraded
from the service of the Altar. He is now, if I
mistake not, a Convert to the Protestant
Church, full of hatred to `the Pope,' and overflowing
with gall at the mere mention of
`idolatrous Rome' —”

“I think I have heard of the man,” muttered
the listener.

“This lover told me that he could not marry
me. But he would spare me the anguish of
bringing into life a child, leprous from the hour
of its birth with the brand of its Mother's
shame. In a word, he brought to my humble
dwelling in the narrow court, a very dear
friend, whom he called Dr. Reuben Gatherwood
—”

“Reuben Gatherwood!” ejaculated Arthur,
in a tone of unfeigned amazement.

Her voice sank low, and deeper as she went
on. Many times her livid face was overspread
by flushes of burning scarlet. More than once
she veiled her eyes, while her lips still continued
that narration of dishonour and despair.

“And thus,” she exclaimed, after the nameless
tragedy of her life had been told: “Thus
deserted by Lemuel Gardiner, the forsworn
Priest, I became the bound Slave of Dr. Reuben
Gatherwood. A word from Dr. Reuben
could at any moment blast me with the name
of MURDERESS! From the hour which Dr.
Reuben entered my home, until this moment,
I have been his slave.”

“Reuben Gatherwood! I cannot — cannot
believe it;” and the merchant looked with
vague incredulity into the face of the agitated
woman. “But Ann,” said he, kindly taking
her hand within his own, “The past is with
the past. Do not think that I have for you
any emotion that approaches to condemnation
or contempt. What need to make this revelation
of your life to me?”

“Because it concerns you, and none other,”
replied Ann, in an emphatic tone.

“I am in the dark; I cannot see the drift of
your words —”

“You will know, alas! too soon —” Ann
hid her face in her hands.

The young Merchant did not seem to hear
her words. A smile that was born at the
fountains of a generous heart, gave a new life
to his handsome face.

“And as to Dr. Reuben Gatherwood, he will
never breathe a whisper of this early misfortune,”
he exclaimed. “He is not the man to
abuse the confidence of any living thing.”

“Reflect for a moment,” said Ann, in a tone
of peculiar emphasis. “For two years Dr.
Reuben Gatherwood has (in the absence of his
aged father) been the confidential Physician of
your home. For two years has Ann Clarke
been an inmate of your house.”

Arthur could not understand the expression
which came over the young woman's face.
Her cheeks became more and more death-like,
while her eyes flashed with dazzling light.
Her accent was clear and distinct; every word
from her lips seemed invested with a peculiar
and hidden meaning.

“I am in the dark yet, Ann,” murmured
Arthur.

“You have doubtless often heard the enemies
of the Roman Church speak in terms of
the utmost horror concerning the influence
which the Priest exercises in every Catholic
family. And yet what is the influence, what
is the power of the Priest, compared to the
confidential Physician? Once I heard it said,
that a just Physician was the truest Minister
of God on earth. Familiar with ailments of
the body and mind, he can administer to the
wants of both, while the Priest only pretends
to care for the Soul. Can you imagine the
power of evil which rests in the hands of the
corrupt Physician?”

“You speak in enigmas,” answered Arthur,
smiling in spite of himself, at the earnestness
and gravity of the young woman: “Upon my
word, Ann, I cannot fathom your meaning.”

“Enigmas! Alas, that an evil like that
which I am about to describe, cannot be spoken
of in any other way than by hints and whispers.”

She paused, and her eyes assumed again
that vague and dreamy lustre. Bending forward,
Arthur earnestly perused each feature of
her pallid face, as if to wrench from her looks
the hidden meaning of her words.

“The woman is mad,” he muttered to himself;
“The story of her fault is only the fancy
of a bewildered brain.”

“Listen,” she said quietly, and then commenced
a narrative, which held Arthur Bayne
enchained for the space of half an hour.