and called Sir Thomas forward from the other end of the lawn. The one word that Mary uttered, that filled us all with such horror and consternation, was ‘Mamma!’
‘Yes, my darling,’ cried the woman, holding her close, crumpling, even crushing her up in her arms. ‘They took you from me when I wasn’t myself! Did I know where they were going to bring you? Here! Oh, yes, I see it all now. Don’t touch my child! don’t interfere with my child!—she sha’n’t stay here another day. Her father would curse her if he knew she was here.’
‘Oh, please set me down,’ said little Mary. ‘Oh, mamma, please don’t hurt me. Oh, my lady!’ cried the poor child, appealing to her protectress. Lady Denzil got up tottering as she heard this cry. She came forward with every particle of colour gone from her face. She was so agitated her lips could scarcely form the words; but she had the courage to lay her hand upon the woman’s arm,—
‘Set her down,’ she said. ‘If you have any claim—set her down—it shall be seen into. Sir Thomas–’
The stranger turned upon her. She was a woman about five-and-thirty, strong and bold and vigorous. I don’t deny she was a handsome woman. She had big blazing black eyes, and a complexion perhaps a little heightened by her walk in the heat. She turned upon Lady Denzil, shaking off her hand, crushing little Mary still closer in one arm, and raising the other with a wild theatrical gesture.
‘You!’ she cried; ‘if I were to tell her father she was with you, he would curse her. How dare you look me in the face—a woman that’s come after her child! you that gave up your own flesh and blood. Ay! You may stare at her, all you fine folks. There’s the woman that sold her son to marry her master. She’s got her grandeur, and all she bid for; and she left her boy to be brought up in the streets, and go for a common soldier. And she’s never set eyes on him, never since he was two years old; and now she’s come and stole my little Mary from me!’
Before this speech was half spoken every soul in the place had crowded round to hear. No one thought how rude it was. Utter consternation was in everybody’s look. As for Lady Denzil, she stood like a statue, as white as marble, in the same spot, hearing it all. She did not move. She was like an image set down there, capable of no individual action. She stood and gazed, and heard it all, and saw us all listening. I cannot tell what dreadful pangs were rending her heart; put she stood like a dead woman in the sunshine, neither contradicting her accuser nor making even one gesture in her own defence.
Then Sir Thomas, on whom there had surely been some spell, came forward, dividing the crowd, and took the stranger by the arm. ‘Set down the child,’ he said in a shaking voice. ‘Set her down. How dare you speak of a mother’s rights? Did you ever do anything for her? Set down the child, woman! You have no business here.’
‘I never forsook my own flesh and blood,’ cried the enraged creature, letting poor little Mary almost fall down out of her arms, but keeping fast hold of her. ‘I’ve a better right here than any of these strangers. I’m her son’s wife. She’s little Mary’s grandmother, though she’ll deny it. She’s that kind of woman that would deny to her last breath. I know she would. She’s the child’s grandmother. She’s my mother-in-law. She’s never seen her son since he was two years old. If he hears the very name of mother he curses and swears. Let me alone, I have come for my child! And I’ve come to give that woman her due!’
‘Go!’ cried Sir Thomas. His voice was awful. He would not touch her, for he was a gentleman; but the sound of his voice made my very knees bend and tremble. ‘Go!’ he said—‘not a word more.’ He was so overcome at last that he put his hand on her shoulder and pushed her away, and wildly beckoned to the servants, who were standing listening too. The woman grasped little Mary by her dress. She crushed up the child’s pretty white cape in her hot hand and dragged her along with her. But she obeyed. She dared not resist his voice; and she had done all the harm it was possible to do.
‘I’ll go,’ she said. ‘None of you had better touch me. I’m twice as strong as you, though you’re a man. But I’ll go. She knows what I think of her now; and you all know what she is!’ she cried, raising her voice. ‘To marry that old man, she deserted her child at two years old, and never set eyes on him more. That’s Lady Denzil. Now you all know, ladies and gentlemen; and I’ll go.’
All this time Lady Denzil never stirred; but when the woman moved away, dragging little Mary with her, all at once my lady stretched out her hands and gave a wild cry. ‘The child!’ she cried; ‘the child!’ And then the little thing turned to her with that strange sympathy we had all noticed. I don’t know how she twitched herself out of her mother’s excited, passionate grasp, but she rushed back and threw herself at Lady Denzil’s feet, and clutched hold of her dress. My lady, who had not moved nor spoken except those two words—who was old and capable of no such exertion, stooped over her and lifted her up. I never saw such a sight. She was as pale as if she had been dead. She had received such a shock as might well have killed her. Notwithstanding, this is what she did. She lifted up the child in her arms, broke away from us who were surrounding her, mounted the steep bank like a girl, with her treasure clasped close to her bosom, and before any one knew, before there was time to speak, or even almost think, had disappeared with her into the house. The woman would have rushed at her, sprung upon her, if she had not been held fast. It may easily be imagined what a scene it was when the mistress of the feast disappeared, and a family secret so extraordinary was thus tossed to public discussion. The house door rang after Lady Denzil, as she rushed in, with a sound like a cannon shot. The stranger stood struggling in the midst of a group of men, visitors and servants, some of whom were trying to persuade, some to force her away. Sir Thomas stood by himself, with his old pale hands piteously clasped together, and his head bent. He was overwhelmed by shame and trouble, and the shock of this frightful scene. He did not seem able for the first moment to face any one, to lift his eyes to the disturbed and fluttering crowd, who were so strangely in the way. And we all stood about thunderstruck, staring in each other’s faces, not knowing what to do or to say. Lady Berkhampstead, with the instinct of a great lady, was the first to recover herself. She turned to me, I scarcely know why, nor could she have told why. ‘I know my carriage is waiting,’ she said, ‘and I could not think of disturbing dear Lady Denzil to say good-bye. Will you tell her how sorry I am to go away without seeing her?’ They all came crowding round me with almost the same words, as soon as she had set the example. And presently Sir Thomas roused up as it were from his stupor. And for the next few minutes there was nothing but shaking of hands, and the rolling up of carriages, and an attempt on the part of everybody to smile and look as if nothing had happened. ‘So long as it does not make dear Lady Denzil ill,’ one of the ladies said. ‘This is one of the dangers of living so close upon the road. It might have happened to any of us,’ said another. ‘Of course the creature is mad; she should be shut up somewhere.’ They said such words with the natural impulse of saying anything to break the terrible impression of the scene; but they were all almost as much shocked and shaken as the principals in it. I never saw such a collection of pale faces as those that went from the Lodge that afternoon. I was left last of all. Somehow the woman who had made so dreadful a disturbance had disappeared without anybody knowing where. Sir Thomas and I were left alone on the lawn, which ten minutes ago—I don’t think it was longer—had been so gay and so crowded. So far as I was myself concerned, that was the most trying moment of all. Everybody had spoken to me as if I belonged to the house, but in reality I did not belong to the house; and I felt like a spy as I stood with Sir Thomas all alone. And what was worse, he felt it too, and looked at me with the forced painful smile he had put on for the others, as if he felt I was just like them, and it was also needful for me.
‘I beg your pardon for staying,’ I said, ‘don’t you think I could be of any use? Lady Denzil perhaps–’
Sir Thomas took my hand and shook it in an imperative way. ‘No, no,’ he said with his set smile. He even turned me towards the gate and touched my shoulder with his agitated hand—half no doubt, because he knew I meant kindly—but
