"O del ciel angeli immortal,Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,Buon Dio, m'accorda il tuo perdono!"
"O del ciel angeli immortal,Deh mi guidate con voi lassù!Dio giusto, a te m'abbandono,Buon Dio, m'accorda il tuo perdono!"
He looked at his hands, which were black from contact with the coals.
"What will Mrs. Moss say?" he murmured.
An hour after Mr. Moss's departure Mrs. Turner opened her eyes. It was a moment for which Dr. Spenlove had anxiously waited. He had satisfied himself that both of his patients were in a fair way of recovery, and thus far his heart was relieved. The woman who had assisted him had also taken her departure after having given the babe some warm milk. Her hunger appeased, the little one was sleeping calmly and peacefully by her mother's side.
The room was now warm and cheerful. A bright fire was blazing, the kettle was simmering, and a pot of hot tea was standing on the hearth.
Mrs. Turner gazed around in bewilderment. The one candle in the room but dimly lighted it up, and the flickering flames of the fire threw fantastic shadows on walls and ceiling; but so bright was the blaze that there was nothing distressful in these shadowy phantasmagoria. At a little distance from the bed stood Dr. Spenlove, his pale face turned to the waking woman. She looked at him long and steadily, and did not answer him when he smiled encouragingly at her and spoke a few gentle words. She passed her hand over the form of her sleeping child, and then across her forehead, in the effort to recall what had passed. But her mind was confused; bewildering images of the stages of her desperate resolve presented themselves--blinding snow, shrieking wind, the sea which she had not reached, the phantoms she had conjured up when her senses were deserting her in the white streets.
"Am I alive?" she muttered.
"Happily, dear Mrs. Turner," said Dr. Spenlove. "You are in your own room, and you will soon be well."
"Who brought me here?"
"I, and a good friend I was fortunate enough to meet when I was seeking you."
"Why did you seek me?"
"To save you."
"To save me! You knew, then----"
She paused.
"I knew nothing except that you were in trouble."
"Where did you find me?"
"In the snow, you and your child. A few minutes longer, and it would have been too late. But an angel directed my steps."
"No angel directed you: a devil led you on. Why did you not leave me to die? It was what I went out for. I confess it!" she cried, recklessly. "It was my purpose not to live; it was my purpose not to allow my child to live! I was justified. Is not a quick death better than a slow, lingering torture which must end in death? Why did you save me? Why did you not leave me to die?"
"It would have been a crime."
"It would have been a mercy. You have brought me back to misery. I do not thank you, doctor."
"You may live to thank me. Drink this tea; it will do you good."
She shook her head rebelliously.
"What is the use? You have done me an ill turn. Had it not been for you I should have been at peace. There would have been no more hunger, no more privation. There would have been an end to my shame and degradation."
"You would have taken it with you to the Judgment Seat," said Dr. Spenlove, with solemn tenderness. "There would have been worse than hunger and privation. What answer could you have made to the Eternal when you presented yourself before the Throne with the crime of murder on your soul?"
"Murder!" she gasped.
"Murder," he gently repeated. "If you went out to-night with an intention so appalling, it was not only your own life you would have taken, it was the life of the innocent babe now slumbering by your side. Can you have forgotten that?"
"No," she answered, in a tone of faint defiance, "I have not forgotten it, I do not forget it. God would have forgiven me."
"He would not have forgiven you."
"He would. What has she to live for? What have I to live for--a lost and abandoned woman, a mother whose association would bring degradation upon her child? How should I meet her reproaches when she grew to be a woman herself? I am not ungrateful for what you have done for me"--she glanced at the fire and the tea he held in his hand--"but it cannot continue. To-morrow will come. There is always a to-morrow to strike terror to the hearts of such as I. Do you know what I have suffered? Do you see the future that lies before us? What hope is there in this world for me and my child?"
"There is hope. You brought her into the world."
"God help me, I did!" she moaned.
"By what right, having given her life, would you rob her of the happiness which may be in store for her?"
"Happiness!" she exclaimed, bitterly. "You speak to me of happiness!"
"I do, in truth and sincerity, if you are willing to make a sacrifice, if you are willing to perform a duty."
"What would I not be willing to do," she cried, despairingly; "what would I not cheerfully do, to make her life innocent and happy--not like mine--oh, not like mine! But you are mocking me with empty words."
"Indeed I am not," said Dr. Spenlove, earnestly. "Since I left you some hours ago, not expecting to see you again, something has occurred of which I came to speak to you. I found your room deserted, and feared--what we will not mention again. I searched, and discovered you in time to save you; and with all my heart I thank God for it! Now, drink this tea. I have much to say to you, and you need strength to consider it. If you can eat a little bread and butter--ah, you can! Let me fill your cup again. That is right. Now I recognise the lady it was my pleasure to be able to assist, not to the extent I would have wished, because of my own circumstances."
His reference to her as a lady, no less than the respectful consideration of his manner towards her, brought a flush to her cheeks as she ate. And, indeed, she ate ravenously. Defiant and rebellious as may be our moods, nature's demands are imperative, and no mortal is strong enough to resist them.
When she had finished he sat by her side, and was silent awhile, debating with himself how he should approach the task which Mr. Gordon had imposed upon him.
She saved him the trouble of commencing. "Are you acquainted with the story of my life?" she asked.
"It has been imparted to me," he replied, "by one to whom I was a stranger till within the last few hours."
"Do I know him?"
"You know him well."
For a moment she thought of the man who had brought her to this gulf of shame, but she dismissed the thought. It was impossible. He was too heartless and base to send a messenger to her on an errand of friendship, and Dr. Spenlove would have undertaken no errand of an opposite nature.
"Will you tell me his name?"
"Mr. Gordon."
She trembled, and her face grew white. She had wronged this man; the law might say that she had robbed him. Oh! why had her fatal design been frustrated? why was not this torturing existence ended?
"You need be under no apprehension," continued Dr. Spenlove; "he comes as a friend."
She tossed her head in scorn of herself as one unworthy of friendship.
"He has but lately arrived in England from the Colonies, and he came with the hope of taking you back with him as his wife. It is from him I learned the sad particulars of your life. Believe me when I say that he is desirous to befriend you."
"In what way? Does he offer me money? I have cost him enough already. My father tricked him, and I have shamefully deceived him. To receive more from him would fill me with shame; but for the sake of my child I will submit to any sacrifice, to any humiliation--I will do anything, anything! It would well become me to show pride when charity is offered to me!"
"Do not forget those words--'for the sake of your child you will submit to any sacrifice.' It is your duty, for her sake, to accept any honourable proposition, and Mr. Gordon offers nothing that is not honourable." (He sighed as he said this, for he thought of the sacredness of a mother's love for her first-born.) "He will not give you money apart from himself. United to him, all he has is yours. He wishes to marry you."
She stared at him in amazement.
"Are you mad!" she cried, "or do you think that I am?"
"I am speaking the sober truth. Mr. Gordon has followed you here because he wishes to marry you."
"Knowing me for what I am!" she said, still incredulous. "Knowing that I am in the lowest depths of degradation; knowing this"--she touched her child with a gentle hand--"he wishes to marry me!"
"He knows all. There is not an incident in your career with which he does not seem to be acquainted, and in the errand with which he has charged me he is sincerely in earnest."
"Dr. Spenlove," she said, slowly, "what is your opinion of a man who comes forward to pluck from shame and poverty a woman who has behaved as I have to Mr. Gordon?"
"His actions speak for him," replied Dr. Spenlove.
"He must have a noble nature," she said. "I never regarded him in that light. I took him to be a hard, conscientious, fair-dealing man, who thought I would make him a good wife, but I never believed that he loved me. I did him the injustice of supposing him incapable of love. Ah, how I misjudged this man! I am not worthy of him, I am not worthy of him!"
"Set your mind not upon the past, but upon the future. Think of yourself and of your child in the years to come, and remember the fear and horror by which you have been oppressed in your contemplation of them. I have something further to disclose to you. Mr. Gordon imposes a condition from which he will not swerve, and to which I beg you to listen with calmness. When you have heard all, do not answer hastily. Reflect upon the consequences which hang on your decision, and bear in mind that you have to make that decision before I leave you. I am to bear your answer to him to-night; he is waiting in my rooms to receive it."
Then, softening down all that was harsh in the proposal and magnifying all its better points, Dr. Spenlove related to her what had passed between Mr. Gordon and himself. She listened in silence, and he could not judge from her demeanour whether he was to succeed or to fail. Frequently she turned her face from his tenderly-searching gaze, as though more effectually to conceal her thoughts from him. When he finished speaking she showed that she had taken to heart his counsel not to decide hastily, for she did not speak for several minutes. Then she said plaintively,--
"There is no appeal, doctor?"
"None," he answered, in a decisive tone.
"He sought you out and made you his messenger, because of his impression that you had influence with me, and would advise me for my good?"
"As I have told you, in his own words, as nearly as I have been able to recall them."
"He was right. There is no man in the world I honour more than I honour you. I would accept what you say against my own convictions, against my own feelings. Advise me, doctor. My mind is distracted; I cannot be guided by it. You know what I am, you know what I have been, you foresee the future that lies before me. Advise me."
The moment he had dreaded had arrived. The issue was with him. He felt that this woman's fate was in his hands.
"My advice is," he said, in a low tone, "that you accept Mr. Gordon's offer."
"And cast aside a mother's duty?"
"What did you cast aside," he asked, sadly, "when you went with your child on such a night as this towards the sea?"
She shuddered. She would not look at her child; with stern resolution she kept her eyes from wandering to the spot upon which the infant lay; she even moved away from the little body so that she should not come in contact with it.
A long silence ensued, which Dr. Spenlove dared not break.
"I cannot blame him," she then said, her voice, now and again, broken by a sob, "for making conditions. It is his respectability that is at stake, and he is noble and generous for taking such a risk upon himself. There is a law for the man and a law for the woman. Oh, I know what I am saying, doctor; the lesson has been driven into my soul, and I have learnt it with tears of blood. One of these laws is white, the other black, and justice says it is right. It is our misfortune that we bear the children, and that their little fingers clutch our heart-strings. It would be mockery for me to say that I love my child with a love equal to that I should have felt if she had come into the world without the mark of shame with which I have branded her. With my love for her is mingled a loathing of myself, a terror of the living evidence of my fall. But I love her, doctor, I love her--and never yet so much as now when I am asked to part with her! What I did a while ago was done in a frenzy of despair. I had no food, you see, and she was crying for it; and the horror and the anguish of that hour may overpower me again if I am left as I am. I will accept Mr. Gordon's offer, and I will be as good a wife to him as it is in my power to be; but I, also, have a condition to make. Mr. Gordon is much older than I, and it may be that I shall outlive him. The condition I make is--and whatever the consequences I am determined to abide by it--that in the event of my husband's death, and of there being no children of our union, I shall be free to seek the child I am called upon to desert. In everything else I will perform my part of the contract faithfully. Take my decision to Mr. Gordon, and if it is possible for you to return here to-night with his answer, I implore you to do so. I cannot close my eyes, I cannot rest, until I hear the worst. God alone knows on which side lies the right, on which the wrong!"
"I will return with his answer," said Dr. Spenlove, "to-night."
"There is still something more," she said, in an imploring tone, "and it must be a secret sacredly kept between you and me. It may happen that you will become acquainted with the name of the guardian of my child. I have a small memorial which I desire he shall retain until she is of age, say until she is twenty-one, or until, in the event of my husband's death, I am free to seek her in years to come. If you do not discover who the guardian is, I ask you to keep this memorial for me until I reclaim it; which may be, never! Will you do this for me?"
"I will."
"Thank you for all your goodness to me. But I have nothing to put the memorial in. Could you add to your many kindnesses by giving me a small box which I can lock and secure? Dear Dr. Spenlove, it is a mother who will presently be torn from her child who implores you!"
He bethought him of a small iron box he had at home, which contained some private papers of his own. He could spare this box without inconvenience to himself, and he promised to bring it to her; and so, with sincere words of consolation, he left her.
In the course of an hour he returned. Mr. Gordon had consented to the condition she imposed.
"Should I be thankful or not?" she asked, wistfully.
"You should be thankful," he replied. "Your child, rest assured, will have a comfortable and happy home. Here is the box and the key. It is a patent lock; no other key can open it. I will show you how to use it. Yes, that is the way." He paused a moment, his hand in his pocket. "You will be ready to meet Mr. Gordon at two to-morrow?"
"And my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "When will she be taken from me?"
"At twelve." His hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "You may want to purchase one or two little things in the morning. Here are a few shillings. Pray accept them."
He laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London.
"Heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life bright and prosperous."
Her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and Dr. Spenlove walked wearily home, once more penniless, but not entirely unhappy.
The mother's vigil with her child on this last night was fraught with conflicting emotions of agony and rebellion. Upon Dr. Spenlove's departure she rose and dressed herself completely, all her thoughts and feelings being so engrossed by the impending separation that she took no heed of her damp clothes. She entertained no doubt that the renunciation was imperative and in the interest of her babe; nor did she doubt that the man who had dictated it was acting in simple justice to himself and in a spirit of mercy towards her; but she was in no mood to regard with gratitude one who in the most dread crisis in her life had saved her from destruction. The cause of this injustice lay in the fact that until this moment the true maternal instinct had not been awakened within her breast. As she had faithfully expressed it to Dr. Spenlove, the birth of her babe had filled her with terror and with a loathing of herself. Had there been no consequences of her error apparent to the world she would have struggled on and might have been able to preserve her good name; her dishonour would not have been made clear to censorious eyes; but the living evidence of her shame was by her side, and, left to her own resources, she had conceived the idea that death was her only refuge. Her acceptance of the better course that had been opened for her loosened the floodgates of tenderness for the child who was soon to be torn from her arms. Love and remorse shone in her eyes as she knelt by the bedside and fondled the little hands and kissed the innocent lips.
"Will you not wake, darling," she murmured, "and let me see your dear eyes? Wake, darling, wake! Do you not know what is going to happen? They are going to take you from me. Perhaps we shall never meet again; and if we do, you have not even a name by which I can call you. But perhaps that will not matter. Surely you will know your mother, surely I shall know my child, and we shall fly to each other's arms. I want to tell you all this--I want you to hear it. Wake, sweet, wake!"
The child slept on. Presently she murmured, "It is hard, it is hard! How can God permit such cruelty?"
Half an hour passed in this way, and then she became more composed. Her mind, which had been unbalanced by her misfortunes, recovered its equilibrium, and she could reason with comparative calmness upon the future. In sorrow and pain she mentally mapped out the years to come. She saw her future, as she believed, a joyless life, a life of cold duty. She would not entertain the possibility of a brighter side, the possibility of her becoming reconciled to her fate, of her growing to love her husband, of her having other children who would be as dear to her as this one was. In the state of her feelings it seemed to her monstrous to entertain such ideas, a wrong perpetrated upon the babe she was deserting. In dogged rebellion she hugged misery to her breast, and dwelt upon it as part of the punishment she had brought upon herself. There was no hope of happiness for her in the future, there was no ray of light to illumine her path. For ever would she be thinking of the child for whom now, for the first time since its birth, she felt a mother's love, and who was henceforth to find a home among strangers.
In this hopeless fashion did she muse for some time, and then a star appeared in her dark sky. She might, as she had suggested to Dr. Spenlove, survive her husband; it was more than possible, it was probable, and, though there was in the contemplation a touch of treason towards the man who had come to her rescue, she derived satisfaction from it. In the event of his death she must adopt some steps to prove that the child was hers, and that she, and she alone, had the sole right to her. No stranger should keep her darling from her, should rob her of her reward for the sufferings she had undergone. It was for this reason that she had asked Dr. Spenlove for the iron box.
It was a compact, well-made box, and very heavy for its size. Any person receiving it as a precious deposit, under the conditions she imposed, might, when it was in his possession, reasonably believe that it contained mementoes of price, valuable jewels, perhaps, which she wished her child to wear when she grew to womanhood. She had no such treasure. Unlocking the box she took from her pocket a packet of letters, which she read with a bitterness which displayed itself strongly in her face, which made her quiver with passionate indignation.
"The villain!" she muttered. "If he stood before me now, I would strike him dead at my feet."
There was no lingering accent of tenderness in her voice. The love she had for him but yesterday was dead, and for the father of her child she had now only feelings of hatred and scorn. Clearly she was a woman of strong passions, a woman who could love and hate with ardour.
The letters were four in number, and had been written, at intervals of two or three weeks, by the man who had betrayed and deserted her. The language was such as would have deceived any girl who had given him her heart. The false fervour, the protestations of undying love, the passionate appeals to put full trust in his honour, were sufficient to stamp the writer as a heartless villain, and, if he aped respectability, to ruin him in the eyes of the world. Cunning he must have been to a certain extent, but it was evident that, in thus incriminating himself and supplying proofs of his perfidy, he had forgotten his usual caution. Perhaps he had been for a short time under a delusion that in his pursuit of the girl he was acting honourably and sincerely, or perhaps (which is more likely), finding that she held back, he was so eager to win her that he addressed her in the only way by which he could compass his desire. The last of the four letters contained a solemn promise of marriage if she would leave her home, and place herself under his protection. It even went so far as to state that he had the license ready, and that it was only her presence that was needed to ratify their union. There was a reference in this letter to the engagement between her and Mr. Gordon, and the writer declared that it would bring misery upon her. "Release yourself from this man," he continued, "at once and for ever. It would be a living death. Rely upon my love. All my life shall be devoted to the task of making you happy, and you shall never have occasion for one moment's regret that you have consented to be guided by me." She read these words with a smile of bitter contempt on her lips, and a burning desire in her heart for revenge.
"If there is justice in heaven," she muttered, "a day will come!"
Then she brought forward a photograph of the betrayer, which, with the letters, she deposited in the box. This done, she locked the box, and tying the key to a bit of string, hung it round her neck, and allowed it to fall, hidden, in her bosom.
Seating herself by the bedside, she gazed upon the babe from whom she was soon to be torn. Her eyes were filled with tears, and her sad thoughts, shaped in words, ran somewhat in this fashion:
"In a few hours she will be taken from me; in a few short hours we shall be separated, and then, and then--ah, how can I know it and live!--an ocean of waters will divide us. She will not miss me; she does not know me. She will receive another woman's endearments; she will never bestow a thought upon me, her wretched mother, and I--I shall be for ever thinking of her! She is all my own now; presently I shall have no claim upon her. Would it not be better to end it as I had intended--to end it now, this moment!" She rose to her feet, and stood with her lips tightly pressed and her hands convulsively clenched; and then she cried in horror, "No, no! I dare not--I dare not! It would be murder, and he said that God would not forgive me. Oh, my darling, my darling, it is merciful that you are a baby, and do not know what is passing in my mind! If you do not love me now, you may in the future, when I shall be free, and then you shall feel how different is a mother's love from the love of a strange woman. But how shall I recognise you if you are a woman before we meet again--how shall I prove to you, to the world, that you are truly mine? Your eyes will be black, as mine are, and your hair, I hope, will be as dark, but there are thousands like that. I am grateful that you resemble me, and not your base father, whom I pray God to strike and punish. Oh, that it were ever in my power to repay him for his treachery, to say to him, 'As you dragged me down, so do I drag you down! As you ruined my life, so do I ruin yours!' But I cannot hope for that. The woman weeps, the man laughs. Never mind, child, never mind. If in future years we are reunited, it will be happiness enough. Dark hair, black eyes, small hands and feet. Oh, darling, darling!" She covered the little hands and feet with kisses. "And yes, yes"--with feverish eagerness she gazed at the child's neck--"these two tiny moles, like those on my neck. I shall know you, I shall know you, I shall be able to prove that you are my daughter!"
With a lighter heart she resumed her seat, and set to work mending the infant's scanty clothing, which she fondled and kissed as though it had sense and feeling. A church clock in the distance tolled five. She had been listening for the hour, hoping it was earlier.
"Five o'clock!" she muttered. "I thought it was not later than three. I am being robbed. Oh, if time would only stand still! Five o'clock! In seven hours she will be taken from me. Seven hours--seven short hours! I will not close my eyes."
But after awhile her lids drooped, and she was not conscious of it. The abnormal fatigues of the day and night, the relaxing of the overstrung nerves, the warmth of the room, produced their effect; her head sank upon the bed, and she fell into a dreamful sleep.
It was merciful that her dreaming fancies were not drawn from the past. The psychological cause of her slumbers being beguiled by bright visions may be found in the circumstance that, despite the conflicting passions by which she had been agitated, the worldly ease which was secured to her and her child by Mr. Gordon's offer had removed a heavy weight from her heart. In her visions she saw her baby grow into a happy girlhood; she had glimpses of holiday times, when they were together in the fields or by the seaside, or walking in the glow of lovely sunsets, gathering flowers in the hush of the woods, or winding their way through the golden corn. In these fair dreams her baby passed from girlhood to womanhood, and happy smiles wreathed the lips of the woe-worn woman as she lay in her poor garments on the humble bed by the side of her child.
"Do you love me, darling?" asked the sleeping mother.
"Dearly, dearly," answered the dream-child. "With my whole heart, mother."
"Call me mother again. It is like the music of the angels."
"Mother, mother!"
"You will love me always, darling?"
"Always, mother; for ever and ever and ever."
"Say that you will never love me less, that you will never forget me."
"I will never love you less; I will never forget you."
"Darling child, how beautiful you are! There is not in the world a lovelier woman. It is for me to protect and guard you. I can do so: I have had experience. Come, let us rest."
They sat upon a mossy bank, and the mother folded her arms around her child, who lay slumbering on her breast.
There had been a few blissful days in this woman's life, during which she had believed in man's faithfulness and God's goodness, but the dreaming hours she was now enjoying were fraught with a heavenly gladness. Nature and dreams are the fairies of the poor and the afflicted.
She awoke as the church clock chimed eight. Again had she to face the stern realities of life. The sad moment of separation was fast approaching.
At five o'clock on the afternoon of that day Dr. Spenlove returned to his apartments. Having given away the money with which he had intended to pay his fare to London, he had bethought him of a gentleman living in Southsea of whom he thought he could borrow a sovereign or two for a few weeks. He had walked the distance, and had met with disappointment; the gentleman was absent on business, and might be absent several days.
"Upon my word," said the good doctor, as he drearily retraced his steps, "it is almost as bad as being shipwrecked; worse, because there are no railways on desert islands. What on earth am I to do? Get to London I must, by hook or by crook, and there is absolutely nothing I can turn into money."
Then he bethought himself of Mr. Moss, and in his extremity determined to make an appeal in that quarter. Had it not been for what had occurred last night, he would not have dreamed of going to this gentleman, of whose goodness of heart he had had no previous experience, and upon whose kindness he had not the slightest claim. Arriving at Mr. Moss's establishment, another disappointment attended him. Mr. Moss was not at home, and they could not say when he would return. So Dr. Spenlove, greatly depressed, walked slowly on, his mind distressed with troubles and perplexities.
He had seen nothing more of Mr. Gordon, who had left him in the early morning with a simple acknowledgment in words of the service he had rendered; nor had he seen anything further of Mrs. Turner. On his road home he called at her lodgings, and heard from her fellow-lodger that she had left the house.
"We don't know where she's gone to, sir," the woman said; "but the rent has been paid up, and a sovereign was slipped under my door. If it wasn't that she was so hard up I should have thought it came from her."
"I have no doubt it did," Dr. Spenlove answered. "She has friends who are well-to-do, and I know that one of these friends, discovering her position, was anxious to assist her."
"I am glad to hear it," said the woman; "and it was more than kind of her to remember me. I always had an idea that she was above us."
As he was entering his room his landlady ran up from the kitchen.
"Oh, doctor, there's a parcel and two letters for you in your room, and Mr. Moss has been here to see you. He said he would come again."
"Very well, Mrs. Radcliffe," said Dr. Spenlove; and, cheered by the news of the promised visit, he passed into his apartment. On the table were the letters and the parcel. The latter, carefully wrapped in thick brown paper, was the iron box he had given to Mrs. Turner. One of the letters was in her handwriting, and it informed him that her child had been taken away and that she was on the point of leaving Portsmouth.
"I am not permitted," the letter ran, "to inform you where I am going, and I am under the obligation of not writing to you personally after I leave this place. This letter is sent without the knowledge of the gentleman for whom you acted, and I do not consider myself bound to tell him that I have written it. What I have promised to do I will do faithfully, but nothing further. You, who of all men in the world perhaps know me best, will understand what I am suffering as I pen these lines. I send with my letter the box you were kind enough to give me last night. It contains the memorial of which I spoke to you. Dear Dr. Spenlove, I rely upon you to carry out my wishes with respect to it. If you are acquainted with the guardian of my child, convey it to him, and beg him to retain it until my darling is of age, or until I am free to seek her. It is not in your nature to refuse the petition of a heartbroken mother; it is not in your nature to violate a promise. For all the kindnesses you have shown me receive my grateful and humble thanks. That you will be happy and successful, and that God will prosper you in all your undertakings, will be my constant prayer. Farewell."
Laying this letter aside he opened the second, which was in a handwriting strange to him:--
"Dear Sir,--
"All my arrangements are made, and the business upon which we spoke together is satisfactorily concluded. You will find enclosed a practical expression of my thanks. I do not give you my address for two reasons. First, I desire no acknowledgment of the enclosure; second, I desire that there shall be no correspondence between us upon any subject. Feeling perfectly satisfied that the confidence I reposed in you will be respected,
"I am,
"Your obedient servant,
"G. Gordon."
The enclosure consisted of five Bank of England notes for £20 each.
Dr. Spenlove was very much astonished and very much relieved. At this juncture the money was a fortune to him; there was a likelihood of its proving the turning-point in his career; and, although it had not been earned in the exercise of his profession, he had no scruple in accepting it. The generosity of the donor was, moreover, in some sense an assurance that he was sincere in all the professions he had made.
"Mr. Moss, sir," said Mrs. Radcliffe, opening the door, and that gentleman entered the room.
As usual, he was humming an operatic air; but he ceased as he closed the door, which, after a momentary pause, he reopened, to convince himself that the landlady was not listening in the passage.
"Can't be too careful, doctor," he observed, with a wink, "when you have something you want to keep to yourself. You have been running after me, and I have been running after you. Did you wish to see me particularly?"
"To tell you the truth," replied Dr. Spenlove, "I had a special reason for calling upon you; but," he added, with a smile, "as it no longer exists, I need not trouble you."
"No trouble, no trouble at all. I am at your service, doctor. Anything I could have done, or can do now, to oblige, you may safely reckon upon. Within limits, you know, within limits."
"Of course; but the necessity is obviated. I intended to ask you to lend me a small sum of money without security, Mr. Moss."
"I guessed as much. You should have had it, doctor, and no inquiries made, though it isn't the way I usually conduct my business; but there are men you can trust and are inclined to trust, and there are men you wouldn't trust without binding them down hard and fast. Now, if you still need the money, don't be afraid to ask."
"I should not be afraid, but I am in funds. I am not the less indebted to you, Mr. Moss."
"All right; I am glad you don't want a loan. Now for another affair--myaffair, I suppose I must call it till I have shifted it to other shoulders, which will soon be done."
He paused a moment.
"Dr. Spenlove, that was a strange adventure last night."
"It was; a strange and sad adventure. You behaved very kindly, and I should like to repay what you expended on behalf of the poor lady."
"No, no, doctor; let it rest where it is. I don't acknowledge your right to repay what you don't owe, and perhaps I am none the worse off for what I did. Throw your bread on the waters, you know. My present visit has reference to the lady--as you call her one, I will do the same--we picked out of the snow last night. Did you ever notice that things go in runs?"
"I don't quite follow you."
"A run of rainy weather, a run of fine weather, a run of good fortune, a run of ill fortune."
"Yes, I have observed it."
"You meet a person to-day you have never seen or heard of before. The odds are that you will meet that person to-morrow, and probably the next day as well. You begin to have bad cards, you go on having bad cards; you begin to make money, you go on making money."
"You infer that there are seasons of circumstances, as of weather. No doubt you are right."
"I know I am right. Making the acquaintance of your friend, Mrs. Turner, last night, in a very extraordinary manner, I am not at all surprised that I have business in hand in which she is concerned. You look astonished; but it is true. You gave her a good character, doctor."
"Which she deserves. It happens in life to the best of us that we find ourselves unexpectedly in trouble. Misfortune is a visitor that does not knock at the door; it enters unannounced."
"We have unlocked the door ourselves, perhaps," suggested Mr. Moss, sagely.
"Quite likely, but we have done so in a moment of trustfulness, deceived by specious professions. The weak and confiding become the victims."
"It is the way of the world, doctor. Hawks and pigeons, you know."
"There are some who are neither," said Dr. Spenlove, who was not disposed to hurry his visitor.
His mind was easy as to his departure from Portsmouth, and he divined from the course the conversation was taking that Mr. Moss had news of a special nature to communicate. He deemed it wisest to allow him to break it in his own way.
"They are the best off," responded Mr. Moss; "brains well balanced--an even scale, doctor--then you can steer straight and to your own advantage. Women are the weakest, as you say; too much heart, too much sentiment. All very well in its proper place, but it weighs one side of the scale down. Mrs. Moss isn't much better than other women in that respect. She has her whims and crotchets, and doesn't always take the business view."
"Implying that you do, Mr. Moss?"
"Of course I do; should be ashamed of myself if I didn't. What do I live for? Business. What do I live by? Business. What do I enjoy most? Business, and plenty of it!"
He rubbed his hands together joyously.
"I should have no objection to paint on my shop door, 'Mr. Moss, Business Man.' People would know it would be no use trying to get the best of me. They don't get it as it is."
"You are unjust to yourself. Was it business last night that made you pay the cabman, and sent you out to buy coals and food for an unfortunate creature you had never seen before?"
"That was a little luxury," said Mr. Moss, with a sly chuckle, "which we business men indulge in occasionally to sharpen up our faculties. It is an investment, and it pays; it puts us on good terms with ourselves. If you think I have a bit of sentiment in me you are mistaken."
"I paint your portrait for myself," protested Dr. Spenlove, "and I shall not allow you to disfigure it. Granted that you keep as a rule to the main road--Business Road, we will call it, if you like----"
"Very good, doctor, very good."
"You walk along, driving bargains, and making money honestly----"
"Thank you, doctor," interposed Mr. Moss, rather gravely. "There are people who don't do us so much justice."
"When unexpectedly," continued Dr. Spenlove, with tender gaiety, "you chance upon a little narrow path to the right or the left of you, and, your eye lighting on it, you observe a stretch of woodland, a touch of bright colour, a picture of human suffering, that appeals to your poetical instinct, to your musical tastes, or to your humanity. Down you plunge towards it, to the confusion, for the time being, of Business Road and its business attractions."
"Sir," said Mr. Moss, bending his head with a dignity which did not sit ill on him, "if all men were of your mind the narrow prejudices of creed would stand a bad chance of making themselves felt. But we are wandering from the main road of the purpose which brought me here. I have not said a word to Mrs. Moss of the adventure of last night; I don't quite know why, because a better creature doesn't breathe; but I gathered from you in some way that you would prefer we should keep it to ourselves. Mrs. Moss never complains of my being out late; she rather encourages me, and that will give you an idea of the good wife she is. 'Enjoyed yourself, Moss?' she asked when I got home. 'Very much,' I answered, and that was all. Now, doctor, a business man wouldn't be worth his salt if he wasn't a thinking man as well. After I was dressed this morning I thought a good deal of the lady and her child, and I came to the conclusion that you took more than an ordinary interest in them."
"You were right," said Dr. Spenlove.
"Following your lead, which is a good thing to do if you've confidence in your partner, I found myself taking more than an ordinary interest in them; but as it wasn't a game of whist we were playing, I had no clue to the cards you held. You will see presently what I am leading up to. While I was thinking and going over some stock which I am compelled by law to put up to auction, I received a message that a gentleman wished to see me on very particular private business. It was then about half-past nine, and the gentleman remained with me about an hour. When he went away he made an appointment with me to meet him at a certain place at twelve o'clock. I met him there; he had a carriage waiting. I got in, and where do you think he drove me?"
"I would rather you answered the question yourself," said Dr. Spenlove, his interest in the conversation receiving an exciting stimulus.
"The carriage, doctor, stopped at the house to which we conveyed your lady friend and her child last night. I opened my eyes, I can tell you. Now, not to beat about the bush, I will make you acquainted with the precise nature of the business the gentleman had with me."
"Pardon me a moment," said Dr. Spenlove. "Was Mr. Gordon the gentleman?"
"You have named him," said Mr. Moss, and perceiving that Dr. Spenlove was about to speak again, he contented himself with answering the question. But the doctor did not proceed; his first intention had been to inquire whether the business was confidential, and if so to decline to listen to the disclosure which his visitor desired to make. A little consideration, however, inclined him to the opinion that this might be carrying delicacy too far. He was in the confidence of both Mr. Gordon and Mrs. Turner, and it might be prejudicial to the mother and her child if he closed his ears to the issue of the strange adventure. He waved his hand, thereby inviting Mr. Moss to continue.
"Just so, doctor," said Mr. Moss, in the tone of a man who had disposed of an objection. "It is a singular business, but I have been mixed up with all kinds of queer transactions in my time, and I always give a man the length of his rope. What induced Mr. Gordon to apply to me is his concern, not mine. Perhaps he had heard a good report of me, and I am much obliged to those who gave it; perhaps he thought I was a tradesman who would take anything in pledge, from a flat iron to a flesh and blood baby. Any way, if I choose to regard his visit as a compliment, it is because I am not thin-skinned. Mr. Gordon informed me that he wished to find a home and to provide for a young baby whose mother could not look after it, being imperatively called away to a distant part of the world. Had it not been that the terms he proposed were extraordinarily liberal, and that he gave me the names of an eminent firm of lawyers in London who had undertaken the financial part of the business, and had it not been, also, that as he spoke to me I thought of a friend whom it might be in my power to serve, I should have shut him up at once by saying that I was not a baby farmer, and by requesting him to take his leave. Interrupting myself, and as it was you who first mentioned the name of Mr. Gordon, I think I am entitled to ask if you are acquainted with him?"
"You are entitled to ask the question. I am acquainted with him."
"Since when, doctor?"
"Since last night only."
"Before we met?"
"Yes, before we met."
"May I inquire if you were then acting for Mr. Gordon?"
"To some extent. Had it not been for him I should not have gone in search of Mrs. Turner."
"In which case," said Mr. Moss, in a grave tone, "she and her child would have been found dead in the snow. That is coming to first causes, doctor. I have not been setting a trap for you in putting these questions; I have been testing Mr. Gordon's veracity. When I asked him whether I was the only person in Portsmouth whom he had consulted, he frankly answered I was not. Upon this I insisted upon his telling me who this other person was. After some hesitation he said, 'Dr. Spenlove.' Any scruples I may have had were instantly dispelled, for I knew that it was impossible you could be mixed up in a business which had not a good end."
"I thank you."
"Hearing your name I thought at once of the lady and her child whom we were instrumental in saving. Am I right in my impression that you are in possession of the conditions and terms Mr. Gordon imposes?"
"I am."
"Then I need not go into them. I take it, Dr. Spenlove, that you do not consider the business disreputable."
"It is not disreputable. Mr. Gordon is a peculiar man, and his story in connection with the lady in question is a singular one. He is not the father of the child, and the action he has taken is not prompted by a desire to rid himself of a responsibility. On the contrary, out of regard for the lady he has voluntarily incurred a very heavy responsibility, which I have little doubt--none, indeed--that he will honourably discharge."
"I will continue. Having heard what Mr. Gordon had to say--thinking all the time of the friend who might be induced to adopt the child, and that I might be able to serve him--I put the gentleman to the test. Admitting that his terms were liberal, I said that a sum of money ought to be paid down at once, in proof of his good faith. 'How much?' he asked. 'Fifty pounds,' I answered. He instantly produced the sum, in bank-notes. Then it occurred to me that it would make things still safer if I had an assurance from the eminent firm of London lawyers that the business was honourable and met with their approval; and if I also had a notification from them that they were prepared to pay the money regularly. 'Send them a telegram,' suggested Mr. Gordon, 'and make it full and complete. I will write a shorter one, which you can send at the same time. Let the answers be addressed here, and open them both yourself when they arrive, which should be before twelve o'clock.' The telegrams written, I took them to the office; and before twelve came the replies, which were perfectly satisfactory. Everything appeared to be so straightforward that I undertook the business. A singular feature in it is that Mr. Gordon does not wish to know with whom the child is placed. 'My lawyers will make inquiries,' he said, 'and they will be content if the people are respectable.' Dr. Spenlove, I thought it right that you should be informed of what I have done; you have expressed your approval, and I am satisfied. Don't you run away with the idea that I have acted philanthropically. Nothing of the kind, sir; I have been paid for my trouble. And now, if you would like to ask any questions, fire away."
"Were no conditions of secrecy imposed upon you?"
"Yes; but I said that I was bound to confide in one person. He may have thought I meant Mrs. Moss, but it was you I had in my mind. I promised that it should go no further, and I do not intend that it shall. Mrs. Moss will be none the worse for not being let into the secret."
"Where is the child now?"
"In the temporary care of a respectable woman, who is providing suitable clothing for it, Mr. Gordon having given me money for the purpose."
"He has not spared his purse. When do you propose taking the child to her new home?"
"To-night."
"They are good people?"
"The best in the world. I would trust my own children with them. She cannot help being happy with them."
"Do they live in Portsmouth?"
"No; in Gosport. I think this is as much as I have the right to disclose."
"I agree with you. Mr. Moss, you can render me an obligation, and you can do a kindness to the poor child's mother. She has implored me to endeavour to place this small iron box in the care of the guardians of her child, to be retained by them for twenty-one years, or until the mother claims it, which she will be free to do in the event of her husband dying during her lifetime. I do not know what it contains, and I understand that it is to be given up to no other person than the child or her mother. Will you do this for me or for her?"
"For both of you, doctor," replied Mr. Moss, lifting the box from the table. "It shall be given into their care, as the mother desires. And now I must be off; I have a busy night before me. Do you go to London to-morrow?"
"A train leaves in a couple of hours; I shall travel by that."
"Well, good-night, and good luck to you. If you want to write to me, you know my address."
They parted with cordiality, and each took his separate way, Dr. Spenlove to the City of Unrest, and Mr. Moss to the peaceful town of Gosport, humming as he went, among other snatches from his favourite opera,--