CHAPTER LXVII.THE WOUNDED BIRD.
Once alone with the child, Mrs. Oakley gave way to the painful thoughts that crowded upon her. What right had she to feel these pangs of bitter jealousy regarding a man who had never spoken to her of love? Who had never, in word at least, expressed more than a friendly interest in her or hers? Was it her place to arraign the man as false or wicked who had given her no power to question his slightest action? And—oh shame on her womanhood—had she not confessed to loving him unsought, shamelessly confessed it, and, above all, to that austere mother who held the faintest approach to enthusiasm as a species of madness?
The blood burned upon that young cheek as she rememberedthe words that scarcely seemed her own—words that had driven that proud mother from her roof, and now burned in fiery shame upon her cheek. But this sudden intelligence had driven her almost mad. Doubt, jealousy, and a thousand wild pangs rent her heart with a pain never dreamed of before.
“Oh, if the dead could arise, if the truth could be dragged up from the depths of their graves! I cannot believe it, I willnotbelieve it. My own cousin—my own dear sister, oh, if it should be true—if he has indeed wronged them in this fearful way.”
She had sunk to the floor, and burying her face in her folded arms, murmuring these things aloud. The poor woman was so unused to passionate conflicts, that this gust of sorrow swept over her like madness.
“Mother,” said Edward, laying one plump hand on her shoulder, and bending his grieved face lovingly to hers, “mother dear, look up! The lady, the lady!”
Mrs. Oakley lifted her face, affrighted that her passion should have had other witnesses than the child. But when she recognized the intruder, the feeling of annoyance gave way, and she arose with a sad smile, apologizing for her singular position.
“I have brought a lame bird for little Edward to nurse,” said Catharine, entering the drawing-room, with her right hand folded over a robin nestled in the palm of her left. “Some cat has wounded it, I fancy. See, darling, what I have brought for you.”
Catharine spoke hurriedly, and turned her eyes away from Mrs. Oakley, for a single glance at her agitated face was enough to arouse all the instinctive delicacy of her nature.
“I don’t want a lame robin,” said Edward, turning away with tears in his eyes. “They have hurt my pretty mamma, and I’d rather take care of her. She’s worse wounded than the bird.”
Mrs. Oakley’s face flushed with fond triumph as the boy came toward her; turning her eyes upon Catharine, she said,
“Isn’t he truthful? Is there a drop of faithless blood in his veins?”
“He is an angel!” answered Catharine, gazing fondly on the child, and stooping down, she passed her hand through the curls that fell over his white forehead. In doing this she exposed the tiny red cross which we have before seen among those clustering curls.
Catharine caught her breath at the sight, and drew away her fingers as if the cross had been of living fire.
“What is this?—whose child is this?” she questioned.
“If I did but know—if I could but have a certainty!” answered the widow, almost wildly. “But why do you ask just now? Has every one conspired to torture me with doubts and accusations? Who told you that he was not my child?”
“No one,” answered Catharine. “Up to this hour I supposed that he was your child; but this mark,—forgive me, but I have seen it before.”
“When? how? Where did you ever see this red cross upon his temple?”
“I saw it, or one exactly like it, some years ago, upon an infant not three months old,” said Catharine, answering the impassioned interrogation with thoughtful sadness.
“And where?—not that the children could possibly have been the same, you know,—but where was the child with a cross like this?”
Catharine hesitated a moment, and then answered with grave composure,—
“The child was a nursling in the house of a poor Irish woman, who was kind to me when I wanted friends.”
“But where did this Irish woman find him? Of course, he had parents?” questioned the widow, breathlessly.
“I think he was an orphan.”
“Well, but where did she find him?”
Catharine grew very pale, but she answered quietly,—
“In Bellevue Hospital, I believe.”
The widow drew a deep breath. She looked anxiously from little Edward to her visitor, attempted to speak, and desisted again, as if afraid of saying too much.
“And his mother? Oh, for mercy’s sake, if you know anything of his mother, tell me about her?”
“I know nothing,” answered Catharine, with sudden reserve. “How should I?”
“Not even the mother’s name? Only tell me that, and I will pray for you—bless you forever!”
There was so much anxiety, something so eager in her voice and manner, that Catharine was deeply touched.
“I only know her Christian name, certainly,” she answered.
“Yes, yes, and that was——” Mrs. Oakley broke off, checking herself suddenly in her interrogations.
“That was Louisa, I am sure it was Louisa; as for the rest, I have no certainty.”
“But you heard other names?”
“Yes, several.”
“Tell me, pray do—what other names did you hear?”
“One name was Barton; the other——” Catharine stopped abruptly, and her face grew pallid.
“Well, that other. I do not recognize this.”
“The other,” said Catharine, looking sadly into the anxious face turned upon her, “the other was your own name—Oakley.”