"In reflecting upon my situation, my Lord; and in laying plans for my future conduct." Oswald took the hint, and asked permission to visit Edmund's mother in his company, and acquaint her with his intentions of leaving the country soon. He consented freely; but seemed unresolved about Edmund's departure.

They set out directly, and Edmund went hastily to old Twyford's cottage, declaring that every field seemed a mile to him. "Restrain your warmth, my son," said Oswald; "compose your mind, and recover your breath, before you enter upon a business of such consequence." Margery met them at the door, and asked Edmund, what wind blew him thither?

"Is it so very surprising," said he, "that I should visit my parents?"

"Yes, it is," said she, "considering the treatment you have met with from us; but since Andrew is not in the house, I may say I am glad to see you; Lord bless you, what a fine youth you be grown! 'Tis a long time since I saw you; but that is not my fault; many a cross word, and many a blow, have I had on your account; but I may now venture to embrace my dear child."

Edmund came forward and embraced her fervently; the starting tears, on both sides, evinced their affection. "And why," said he, "should my father forbid you to embrace your child? what have I ever done to deserve his hatred?"

"Nothing, my dear boy! you were always good and tender-hearted, and deserved the love of every body."

"It is not common," said Edmund, "for a parent to hate his first-born son without his having deserved it."

"That is true," said Oswald; "it is uncommon, it is unnatural; nay, I am of opinion it is almost impossible. I am so convinced of this truth, that I believe the man who thus hates and abuses Edmund, cannot be his father." In saying this, he observed her countenance attentively; she changed colour apparently. "Come," said he, "let us sit down; and do you, Margery, answer to what I have said."

"Blessed Virgin!" said Margery, "what does your reverence mean? what do you suspect?"

"I suspect," said he, "that Edmund is not the son of Andrew your husband."

"Lord bless me!" said she, "what is it you do suspect?"

"Do not evade my question, woman! I am come here by authority to examine you upon this point."

The woman trembled every joint. "Would to Heaven!" said she, "that Andrew was at home!"

"It is much better as it is," said Oswald; "you are the person we are to examine."

"Oh, father," said she, "do you think that I--that I--that I am to blame in this matter? what have I done?"

"Do you, sir," said he, "ask your own questions."

Upon this, Edmund threw himself at her feet, and embraced her knees.

"O my mother!" said he, "for as such my heart owns you, tell me for the love of Heaven! tell me, who was my father?"

"Gracious Heaven!" said she, "what will become of me?"

"Woman!" said Oswald, "confess the truth, or you shall be compelled to do it; by whom had you this youth?"

"Who, I?" said she; "I had him! No, father, I am not guilty of the black crime of adultery; G.o.d, He knows my innocence; I am not worthy to be the mother of such a sweet youth as that is."

"You are not his mother, then, nor Andrew his father?"

"Oh, what shall I do?" said Margery; "Andrew will be the death of me!"

"No, he shall not," said Edmund; "you shall be protected and rewarded for the discovery."

"Goody," said Oswald, "confess the whole truth, and I will protect you from harm and from blame; you may be the means of making Edmund's fortune, in which case he will certainly provide for you; on the other hand, by an obstinate silence you will deprive yourself of all advantages you might receive from the discovery; and, beside, you will soon be examined in a different manner, and be obliged to confess all you know, and n.o.body will thank you for it."

"Ah," said she, "but Andrew beat me the last time I spoke to Edmund; and told me he would break every bone in my skin, if ever I spoke to him again."

"He knows it then?" said Oswald.

"He know it! Lord help you, it was all his own doing."

"Tell us then," said Oswald; "for Andrew shall never know it, till it is out of his power to punish you."

"'Tis a long story," said she, "and cannot be told in a few words."

"It will never be told at this rate," said he; "sit down and begin it instantly."

"My fate depends upon your words," said Edmund; "my soul is impatient of the suspense! If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and tell while I have breath to ask it."

He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally expressive of his inward emotions.

"I will," said she; "but I must try to recollect all the circ.u.mstances.

You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of age."

"On what day was he born," said Oswald?

"The day before yesterday," said she, "the 21st of September."

"A remarkable era," said he.

"'Tis so, indeed," said Edmund; "Oh, that night! that apartment!"

"Be silent," said Oswald; "and do you, Margery, begin your story."

"I will," said she. "Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was near my time, and so the poor child died. And so, as I was sitting all alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; 'See, Margery,'

said he, 'I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.'

So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief, and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace. 'And where did you find this?' says I. 'Upon the foot-bridge,' says he, 'just below the clayfield. This child,' said he, 'belongs to some great folk, and perhaps it may be enquired after one day, and may make our fortunes; take care of it,' said he, 'and bring it up as if it was your own.' The poor infant was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so pitifully, that I loved it; beside, my milk was troublesome to me, and I was glad to be eased of it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I loved the child as if it were my own, and so I do still if I dared to own it."

"And this is all you know of Edmund's birth?" said Oswald.

"No, not all," said Margery; "but pray look out and see whether Andrew is coming, for I am all over in a twitter."

"He is not," said Oswald; "go on, I beseech you!"

"This happened," said she, "as I told you, on the 21st. On the morrow, my Andrew went out early to work, along with one Robin Rouse, our neighbour; they had not been gone above an hour, when they both came back seemingly very much frightened. Says Andrew, 'Go you, Robin, and borrow a pickaxe at neighbour Styles's.' What is the matter now?' said I. 'Matter enough!' quoth Andrew; 'we may come to be hanged, perhaps, as many an innocent man has before us.' 'Tell me what is the matter,' said I. 'I will,' said he; 'but if ever you open your mouth about it, woe be to you!' 'I never will,' said I; but he made me swear by all the blessed saints in the Calendar; and then he told me, that, as Robin and he were going over the foot-bridge, where he found the child the evening before, they saw something floating upon the water; so they followed it, till it stuck against a stake, and found it to be the dead body of a woman; 'as sure as you are alive, Madge,' said he, 'this was the mother of the child I brought home.'"

"Merciful G.o.d!" said Edmund; "am I the child of that hapless mother?"

"Be composed," said Oswald; "proceed, good woman, the time is precious."

"And so," continued she, "Andrew told me they dragged the body out of the river, and it was richly dressed, and must be somebody of consequence. 'I suppose,' said he, 'when the poor Lady had taken care of her child, she went to find some help; and, the night being dark, her foot slipped, and she fell into the river, and was drowned.'

"'Lord have mercy!' said Robin, 'what shall we do with the dead body?

we may be taken up for the murder; what had we to do to meddle with it?'

'Ay, but,' says Andrew, 'we must have something to do with it now; and our wisest way is to bury it.' Robin was sadly frightened, but at last they agreed to carry it into the wood, and bury it there; so they came home for a pickaxe and shovel. 'Well,' said I, 'Andrew, but will you bury all the rich clothes you speak of?' 'Why,' said he, 'it would be both a sin and a shame to strip the dead.' 'So it would,' said I; 'but I will give you a sheet to wrap the body in, and you may take off her upper garments, and any thing of value; but do not strip her to the skin for any thing.' 'Well said, wench!' said he; 'I will do as you say.' So I fetched a sheet, and by that time Robin was come back, and away they went together.