He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his deathbed. He would take everything—down to the smallest article. Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew nothing.
It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superstitious; the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who passed beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral—no one had used it.
Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour—which was the most comfortable room in the house—were reading, and looked up mutually at the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause; and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so muffled, that they doubted the evidence of their ears—and yet surely it was a knocking.
The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the fire and looked fearfully at each other.
One thing was certain—no person who knew The Place, no one from the village, would come to that door. If it was any mortal man or woman, it must be a stranger; and the last time a stranger had crossed the “green,” all knew what had happened. If it was not a stranger, then it must be the spirit of poor “master.” They were determined not to hear.
The taps were repeated. Violet and Aymer looked at each other.
Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if anyone was without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind, bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was, he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet. Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched—a woman’s dress. He lifted her up—the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.
“Violet, dear!” he said, “it is a woman—she has fainted; may I bring her in?”
Violet’s sympathies were at once on the alert. The woman was carried in and laid upon the rug before the fire, the servants came crowding in to render assistance, brandy was brought, and the stranger opened her eyes and moaned faintly. Then they saw that, although stained with travel and damp from exposure to the drifting snowi, her dress was that of a lady.
Under the influence of the warm fire and the brandy she soon recovered sufficiently to sit up. She was not handsome nor young; her best features were a broad, intellectual looking forehead, and fine dark eyes. So soon as ever she was strong enough to speak she turned to Violet, and begged to be alone with her for a little while.
Aymer, with all a lover’s suspicions, demurred, but Violet insisted, and he had to be content with remaining within easy call.
He had no sooner left the room than the lady, for such she appeared to be, fell upon her knees at Violet’s feet, and begged her for the sake of her father’s memory to show mercy.
“Oh! spare us,” cried the unhappy creature, bursting into tears, and wringing her hands, “spare us—we are penniless. Indeed we did not do it purposely. We never knew—I am Esther Herring!”
It was long before Violet could gather her meaning from these incoherent sentences. At last, under her kind words and gentle questions, Esther became calmer and explained the miserable state of affairs. Violet sighed deeply. In one moment her hopes were dashed to the ground: her money was gone; how could she and Aymer—
But she bore up bravely, and listened patiently to Esther’s story. How the widow’s heart was breaking, how the sons were despairing, and the daughters looking forward to begging their bread. How the sale approached—only five days more; and that thinking, and thinking day and night over the misery of it, Esther had at last fled to Violet for mercy—to Violet, who was ignorant of the whole matter. Fled on foot—for all their horses were seized—on that wild winter afternoon, facing the bitter wind, the snow, and the steep hills for ten long miles to World’s End. Fled to fling herself at Violet’s feet, and beg for mercy upon the widow and the fatherless children. The fatigue and her excitement had proved too much, and she had fainted at the very door. Esther dwelt much upon Mr. Merton’s cruelty, for his insults had cut her to the quick.
Violet became very pale. She went to the door and called softly, “Aymer.” He came, and Esther attempted to dry her tears. Violet told him all, and took his hand.
“This cannot be,” she said; “this surely must not be. I will do—we will do—as of a surety my father would have done. The innocent shall not suffer for the guilty. We, Aymer and I, will give up our claim. Tell them at your home to be comforted and to fear not.”
Esther saw that her mission was accomplished, and the reaction set in. She became ill and feverish. Violet had her
