She added, that the
manly and affectionate tenderness of John Sandal at this period, had
touched her heart more deeply, if possible, than all the former
testimonies of his affection--but that she could not bear his
resignation of all his usual habits of rural amusement, and of the
neighbouring society--that she in vain had chided him from her couch,
where she lingered in pain and hope, and hoped that Elinor’s presence
might induce him to yield to her request, as he must feel, on her
arrival, the dearest companion of her youth was present--and that, at
such a moment, a female companion was more suitable than even the
gentlest and most affectionate of the other sex. * * * * * * *

“Elinor set out directly. The purity of her feelings had formed an
impenetrable barrier between her heart and its object,--and she
apprehended no more danger from the presence of one who was wedded, and
wedded to her relative, than from that of her own brother. “She arrived at the Castle--Margaret’s hour of danger had begun--she had
been very ill during the preceding period. The natural consequences of
her situation had been aggravated by a feeling of dignified
responsibility on the birth of an heir to the house of Mortimer--and
this feeling had not contributed to render that situation more
supportable. “Elinor bent over the bed of pain--pressed her cold lips to the burning
lips of the sufferer--and prayed for her. “The first medical assistance in the country (then very rarely employed
on such occasions) had been obtained at a vast expence. The widow
Sandal, declining all attendance on the sufferer, paced through the
adjacent apartments in agony unutterable and _unuttered_. “Two days and nights went on in hope and terror--the bell-ringers sat up
in every church within ten miles round--the tenantry crowded round the
Castle with honest heartfelt solicitude--the neighbouring nobility sent
their messages of inquiry every hour. An accouchement in a noble family
was then an event of importance. “The hour came--twins were born dead--and the young mother was fated to
follow them within a few hours! While life yet remained, Margaret shewed
the remains of the lofty spirit of the Mortimers. She sought with her
cold hand that of her wretched husband and of the weeping Elinor. She
joined them in an embrace which one of them at least understood, and
prayed that their union might be eternal. She then begged to see the
bodies of her infant sons--they were produced; and it was said that she
uttered expressions, intimating that, had they not been the heirs of the
Mortimer family--had not expectation been wound so high, and supported
by all the hopes that life and youth could flatter her with,--she and
they might yet have existed. “As she spoke, her voice grew feebler, and her eyes dim--their last
light was turned on him she loved; and when sight was gone, she still
felt his arms enfold her. The next moment they enfolded--nothing! “In the terrible spasms of masculine agony--the more intensely felt as
they are more rarely indulged--the young widower dashed himself on the
bed, which shook with his convulsive grief; and Elinor, losing all sense
but that of a calamity so sudden and so terrible, echoed his deep and
suffocating sobs, as if she whom they deplored had not been the only
obstacle to her happiness. * * * * * * * *

“Amid the voice of mourning that rung through the Castle from vault to
tower in that day of trouble, none was loud like that of the widow
Sandal--her wailings were shrieks, her grief was despair. Rushing
through the rooms like one distracted, she tore her hair out by the
roots, and imprecated the most fearful curses on her head. At length she
approached the apartment where the corse lay. The servants, shocked at
her distraction, would have withheld her from entering it, but could
not. She burst into the room, cast one wild look on its inmates--the
still corse and the dumb mourners--and then, flinging herself on her
knees before her son, confessed the secret of her guilt, and developed
to its foul base the foundation of that pile of iniquity and sorrow
which had now reached its summit. “Her son listened to this horrible confession with fixed eye and
features unmoved; and at its conclusion, when the wretched penitent
implored the assistance of her son to raise her from her knees, he
repelled her outstretched hands, and with a weak wild laugh, sunk back
on the bed. He never could be removed from it till the corse to which he
clung was borne away, and then the mourners hardly knew which to
deplore--her who was deprived of the light of life, or him in whom the
light of reason was extinguished for ever! * * * * *

“The wretched, guilty mother, (but for her fate no one can be
solicitous), a few months after, on her dying bed, declared the secret
of her crime to a minister of an independent congregation, who was
induced, by the report of her despair, to visit her. She confessed that,
being instigated by avarice, and still more by the desire of regaining
her lost consequence in the family, and knowing the wealth and dignity
her son would acquire, and in which she must participate, by his
marriage with Margaret, she had, after using all the means of persuasion
and intreaty, been driven, in despair at her disappointment, to
fabricate a tale as false as it was horrible, which she related to her
deluded son on the evening before his intended nuptials with Elinor. She
had assured him he was not her son, but the offspring of the illicit
commerce of her husband the preacher with the Puritan mother of Elinor,
who had formerly been one of his congregation, and whose well-known and
strongly-expressed admiration of his preaching had been once supposed
extended to his person,--had caused her much jealous anxiety in the
early years of their marriage, and was now made the basis of this
horrible fiction. She added, that Margaret’s obvious attachment to her
cousin had, in some degree, palliated her guilt to herself; but that,
when she saw him quit her house in despair on the morning of his
intended marriage, and rush he knew not whither, she was half tempted to
recall him, and confess the truth. Her mind again became hardened, and
she reflected that her secret was safe, as she had bound him by an oath,
from respect to his father’s memory, and compassion to the guilty mother
of Elinor, never to disclose the truth to her daughter. “The event had succeeded to her guilty wishes.--Sandal beheld Elinor
with the eyes of a brother, and the image of Margaret easily found a
place in his unoccupied affections. But, as often befals to the dealers
in falsehood and obliquity, the apparent accomplishment of her hopes
proved her ruin.