LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1897, 23 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MARTHA JACOBI: A TRACED? IN REAL LIFE. [Abridged from the Christmas Number of “ Belgravia.”] ( Concluded.) I kept away for three weeks. I did not even haunt the house, or the street in which the house was—l was too much afraid of meeting them, or giving them offence. At the end of that time I went to see them. I remember it was snowing fast and close on Christmas time. Mr Mayfield opened the door, started, hesitated, and then said—- ‘ Ah, Martha, come in for a moment. I was thinking of you to-day.’ I went into the little front parlor, where there was no Mrs Mayfield, and where there seemed signs of desolation—of a new emptiness, which I did not understand. ‘ I have some bad news for you, Martha,’ he said ; ‘ our little Paul is very ill.’ ‘Paul ill,’l exclaimed, ‘and you did not send for me—did not let me know. Oh, Mr Mayfield, why have yon treated me like this ?’ ‘ Hush, hush ! you must not make the least noise in the house, now,’ he said sternly, ‘ perfect peace is my poor boy’s only chance.’

‘ I will go to him.’ ‘ You would kill him directly. The least excitement or shock or surprise would kill him ; he is very weak.’ ‘ And his mother ?’

* Sits up with him night and day. He will have no one but his mother, Martha.’ ‘ He would be glad if ’ ‘ Not now,’ said Mr Mayfield, interrupting me ; ‘he is too ill to be disturbed even by your kindness.’ ‘ But—he will recover ?’

‘We hope so.’ ‘ Oh! lam sure so ; he is so strong a boy —so healthy. What has changed him, and in so short a time ?’ ‘ Fever ’

* Poor Paul! my poor, dear little flower. I may come to-morrow and ask about him V

‘lf you wish,’ said Mr Mayfield, graciously ; ‘ and if he Is better you shall see him.’ ‘I thank you very much,’ I murmured. But he was no better the next day, and the day following the white blinds were all down before the windows. I saw them as I came up the street. I leaned against the opposite wall and shook as with an ague. I tottered aeross the road and knocked. Mr Mayfield opened the door again, and looked whiter and sterner than I had seen him yet. ‘He is gone; he is dead then !’ I cried ; * and you have never let mo come to him.’

* Yes, we have lost our poor boy,’ he answered moodily. ‘.I must see him ; you must not say " No ” to me again,’ I said almost defiantly; *he was dearer to me than to you, I swear. He loved me better than bis mother ; I swear that too. And yon have let him die without me.’ * Martha, you excite yourself unnecessarily ; you distress me; you will alarm my wife ; yon ’

‘ May X see the child ? ’ I asked peremptorily. ‘Yes, you may,’ was the reply ; • poor little fellow. There is : no disturbing him now.’

I felt the tears rushing to my eyes. I was choking, and could not answer him. Here is my wife,’he said; and through my blinding tears I saw my mistress glide in like a ghost, and with a ghost like face which chilled me. * Jenny.’ he said to her, • here is poor Martha, the first to offer her sympathy with our affliction.’ * I am glad to see you, Martha,’ said my mistress, shaking hands with me ; * it is kind of you to call.’ She was very cold and her voice was very hard—not broken down with grief as mine was, I thought fretfully. * She wishes to see our boy.’ ‘ Now 1 ’ asked Mrs Mayfield. ‘ Does it matter when ? ’ said her husband; ‘surely, our faithful Martha has a claim to see him first of all.’ ‘ Y es, yes—l think so, ’ assented his wife. Then we all three went upstairs into the darkened room, where he lay in his little bod as though he were asleep. ‘ How long has he been dead?’ I whispered as I entered, and sank down on my knees to gaze at him- * Not two hours yet,’ whispered Mrs Mayfield to me. * Are yon sure he is dead ? ’ I inquired. OMr Mayfield gave a suppressed cry, and her husband stooped and looked into my face. ‘ Don’t mock us—don’t even for a moment, have a thought like that, ’ said the husband; * God’s will be done. ’ * God’s will be done. ’ I said in reply, ‘and a cruel will it seems to me.’ ‘ Martha! ’ said Mrs Mayfield reproachfully, ‘ you forget.’ ‘I say it seems to me,’ I answered ; ‘ but then I am wicked and ignorant, and can’t see what is best.’ I leaned over and kissed the cold little face—l put my arms round his neck and sobbed—l was foolish and demonstrative in my wild grief again ; it was my nature. ‘ Do you think he has changed at all ? ’ asked Mr Mayfield. ' No,’ I answered, ‘I can believe he will wake and scon speak to me.’ We were silent, all three of us, for a while ; presently the father—always the spokesman—said—- ‘ Will you come away now, Martha please ? ‘ Not yet.’ ‘ But ’ * I will not go yet,’ I said very firmly; * and you cannot drag me from him; I’m too strong.’ ‘ Well, well—for a little while longer then,’ said Mr Mayfield, ‘until—— ’ The door was opening; there was a fourth person in the house; I looked up instinctively to see who this could be. who had the privilege to stay here whilst I was kept away, and the face that peered round the door was that of the man who had stopped me In the streets and asked about poor Paul; I knew his wicked eyes and the long trailing moustaches at once, and yet I did not scream or rave; I cowered down and hid my head ; when I looked up again only Mrs Mayfield was in the room, and my heart was beating veryJfast. ‘My poor Martha; is it not time we went down stairs ?’ she said gently; * can this grief do you any good; will yon think of sparing me a little ?’ ‘ Who was that ?’ I said, without heed to her inquiries— * that man who looked round the door just now ?’ ‘What man?’

‘ You did not see anyone ?’ ‘ No,’ said Mrs Mayfield; ‘ but I was sitting with tny back to the door—Arthur will know, perhaps.’ ‘Yes, he will know,’ I repeated; ‘bat you have a visitor in this house V ‘No,’ said my mistress; ‘this has not been a time for visitors, surely ?’ ‘ Surely not.’ I buried my head in the bedclothes again, but this time it was not with grief. I wanted to work out all that was twisted round my brain in a thick ravelled skein—l wanted to think hard, and not go mad with thinking; that man! —what was he doing here?—what had he to do with my boy’s death ?—in what way had he become connected with it? I looked up again; Mrs Mayfield was sitting in a chair by the window with her thin hands spread before her face, and those hands were trembling very much ! I looked from her to the dead child lying In its awful stillness and its marble beauty, and knowing nothing of our woman’s griefs ; I gazed at it till a new strange wild feeling came across me, and my sorrow was changed slowly to suspicion and dread ; I became as cold as the little body lying in the bed—l stole my hand within, and felt for the small rigid arm—l turned down the sheets with a quick movement, and looked at the right wrist then at the left, although I knew that it was on the right that Paul had been cut so desperately a few months since—and there was no scar on the smooth flesh.

‘Mistress,’l exclaimed, springing to my feet, ‘this is not Paul—this is not our boy!’ ‘ Martha !’ exclaimed Mrs Mayfield, rising also from the chair, and clutching at the back for support, ‘how—how dare you frighten me like this—and talk like this—to me ?’

‘This Is not Paul—it is not my darling—it is not like him now ; oh ! what have you done with him—my God ; what have you done with him ?’ * I tell you ’ * I will not have you lie to me— you to whom I have looked up so long. Don’t speak—don’t say another word just now, but listen,’ I cried ; ‘ that is a strange child put there, and changed for Paul—a dead child is brought in, and the living one is given up to the man down stairs—the wretch who would have tempted me with his money—who could only come here safely when I was turned away ; I will tell all about it, no matter what it means, unless you give me back the child I loved; you must find him—he must come back, I say!’ Mrs Mayfield dropped into the chair, and cowered from me now. Her husband entered; he had had been startled by the loud tones of my angry voice. ‘ What is the meaning—?’ he began, then he stopped as I pointed to the right wrist of the dead boy and looked at him defiantly. * What is the meaning of this, Arthur Mayfield?—for this is not you son,’ I said.

• I protest against -’ • I proclaim to God that this is not your son. I will tell the doctor —I will call in your neighbors—l will go to the nearest magistrate, and say there has been foul play —1 will disgrace and ruin you, if you will not tell me where my Paul is. And if he is safe—’

* Well, if he is safe ?’ ‘And in health—not done away—l will say nothing to any living soul.’ ‘ I will tell you —for mercy’s sake don’t think of betraying those who have been always kind to yon.’ * Where is the boy ?’ * I have always trusted you as a friend—l have tried to make you love me, Martha, and to save you' murmured Mrs Mayfield. * Where is the boy ?’ I demanded sternly still. ‘ I do not know.’ ‘ What!’ * Pray be silent, and listen, As God is my judge, I do not know. Be satisfied as I am satisfied,’ said the husband, ‘and grieve with us too, as we grieve for this. ’ ‘Go on—go on !’ I cried impatiently. * Be assurred with us, good Martha,’ said Mr Mayfield, ‘that little Paulis well. It should be happiness to yon, instead of grief, that it is not our darling lying there. Try and think with us—will you ?, ‘Yea—l am glad. But who is this? and why have you given up the living for the dead V 1 1 cannot tell you.’ ‘ It is not true. This is another lie !’ ‘ It is an awful fact, Martha,’ said Mr Mayfield suddenly ; ‘we do not know, and we shall never know, the whole reason of it all. We can but guess closely at the truth. With that child’s death and whose child it is, heaven knows —there should have passed away a grand inheritance, and it is very important that the death should not be suspected. Between the child and our Paul there was a powerful resemblance, and the

heir was sinking fast. They have replaced him by Paul— that is all I know—they have bought our little boy, and he will grow rich and great away from us, and never see us more ’ * And they will not tell your where he is —at any time ?’ ‘No that will be to betray a great secret.’ ‘To sell your own flesh and blood —you two 1 ’ I muttered. ‘We were very poor—in another month we should have been starving in the street,’ said Mr Mayfield. * Yon deserved to starve—you will starve yet ? ’ ‘ No, not now. There was a heavy recompense, Martha, and it saved ns. And it has bettered little Paul’s position.’ ‘ When I was a young woman, crushed by shame, I killed my baby,’ I said sternly ; ‘ but I think yours is the greater crime, and you will suffer for it. ’ ‘Von regard this too gloomily,’said the husband. ‘ And the man who bought Paul was he who looked in just now? ’ ‘Yes.’ ‘ And you trusted Paul with him ? ’ ‘ Yes ; I am sure he will be treated with every care to his life’s end. We have been saved by that man—he has been princely in his gifts—he has left one hundred pounds for your silence, too—here it is.’ ‘lt is blood-money—l will not touch it,’ I cried ; ‘it is the price of my lost darling’s life and love—l will not take a penny of it ! ’ * And you will betray us ?’ ‘ No—l can’t do that.’ I went away from them without another word. I only saw those poor, weak, tempted wretches once again. I heard that they were rich, and five years afterwards they splashed me with their carriage- wheels, as I stood bare-footed on the kerb-stones waiting to cross the muddy road-way. This is the fine moral of the story:—They had prospered, and I was begging and stealing for my daily bread I I sank from bad to worse— I went back to my two old companions, drink and the devil—l lost all the good that was in me very quickly ; only the sight of a little ohild would make me crying drunk at times. I got to prison again and again—to a long sentence finally, which I shall cheat the judge out of, not having many days to live, I fancy. The last shock was my deathblow—it was a strange one, but it has sobered mo for all time. I have seen my Paul again. God let me live long enough to see him, I am Jas sure it was he as lam lying here past hope of life. Yes, it was my boy ! though the matrons may think old Martha ravirg. It was in the prison infirmary that I saw him ; he came in softly, hat in hand, out of respect even to sick crime, and there followed him some half-a dozen gentlemen, hats in hand also, with the lady superintendent of the prison, the deputy and the officers, all bland and complaisant and white with nervousness and awe. He was seventeen or eighteen years of age, and very handsome—as I knew he would be ; but they were the same features, I was sure, unless I was mad;

‘ This is the prison infirmary, your highness,’ I heard the lady superintendent say. He looked round at our prison beds, and then at me, ‘ And who is this ?’ ‘ This is Martha Jacobi—a woman who has been some twenty times in prison.’ ‘111?’ ‘Very ill, your bigness.’ * Poor woman I’ He put his right hand to his ohin whilst he looked at me. I thought the scar was there still Yes—it was there 1 ‘What a life hers must have been, baron,’ said the prince, turning to a tall man at his side, at whom I now glanced for the first time, having had eyes only for Paul till then. Yes, there was no mistake. There was the man with his dark eyes and the long moustache, which was white as snow now—the man who had bought Paul Mayfield and made a prince of him to save a dynasty 1 * One can scarcely realise it, your highness, ’ said the other. ‘Ah ! well—life is an enigma, Baron Baumann, and this depresses me. Let us get away.’ He turned, without looking at me again ; and his suite fell into position behind him, and away they all swept out of the infirmary into the limewashed corridors beyond. Yes, life is an enigma 1 If the prince could have only guessed that I had been a mother to him once, and loved him sorely and desperately well—if it had been only possible for him to believe the wild story of my life and his, what a dreamland he would have passed from —and to what an awakening !