CHAPTER XXXII.SEARCHING FOR HIS WIFE.
George de Marke walked the streets of New York all that night. Long before daybreak he was hovering around the walls of Bellevue, working off his impatience by abrupt turns among the neighboring streets, or standing upon the wharf with his face to the east, watching for the first quiver of daylight upon the waters of the river.
It was strange, but no misgiving seemed to reach him during that long watch; and he looked upon the gloomy walls of the hospital with a feeling of profound interest; for they had sheltered his wife and child, and anything seemed less degrading to the young man than the miserable home of his stepmother. At last the day gave its first faint glow along the horizon, shedding a pale brilliancy down upon the water, and revealing the Long Island shore in faint glimpses, half of mist, half of light. Then came a soft, rosy bloom, breaking through the mist, and trembling down upon the water as if a shower of rose-leaves had fallen upon the river during the night-watches.
All this seemed very beautiful to the young man, and each new ray of light came to his soul like a promise. It was not till the soft pink tints were all washed away with a deluge of gold from the rising sun, that the youth turned from the wharf and sought admission to the hospital.
The attempt was fruitless. Not till deep in the morning could he gain admission within the walls; so he plunged into the city again, and wandered as before, at random, filled with but one thought, and hungry—not for food, but for knowledge of the only objects dear to him on earth.
Late in the day, he found admission to the hospital.Catharine was not there. He could learn nothing of her or her child, and now stood by a clerk’s desk, waiting with faint heart for the tidings the dumb pages of the register might give him.
“Catharine, Catharine De Marke,” muttered the clerk, and running his finger down the column of names, “I find no such name here. There are plenty of Catharines, but no De Markes. You must be mistaken, sir,—the register never is.”
The young man bent his forehead to his hand, with a faint groan, while the clerk closed the huge register with a clang, and was about to move away.
“It may be,” said De Marke, suddenly lifting his head, “it may be that she gave another name. Poor child! I had never given her leave to take mine. Look again. It may have been registered Catharine Lacy. I am sorry to trouble you, but do search once more. She was my wife, but might not have dared to use my name.”
The clerk opened the huge book again, and commenced running down its pages with his finger, with a rapidity that exhibited some feeling for the unhappy man, who stood watching him with such intense anxiety. At last he paused, cast a quick glance at his visitor, and slowly wheeled the book toward him.
The young man bent down, and saw the writing through a faint mist that turned to a burning haze as he read,—
“Catharine Lacy entered—died and buried with her child, April——”
The color left his face and lips. He threw his arms out as if to protect himself from falling, and sunk on a bench that stood by, without a word or a groan. Everything was dark around him. He had no wife—he was no longer a father. The secret of his marriage, so long buried in his heart, had perished in a single instant. Nothing was left but a remorseful memory, which must lie there, the dust of a dead love, forever and ever.
He did not speak a word, but got up and staggered away, weak with the misery that had fallen upon him.
On the third day from this, George de Marke stood once more in the miserable den which his stepmother inhabited. Sternly, and with steady repulsion of manner, he addressed the old woman:
“Give me,” he said, “a portion of my father’s property, let it be ever so small, that I may leave this place forever.”
“There is nothing for you, not a cent,” replied the old woman. “You have not reached the age when you can command a sous of my money. That was your father’s will. When you bring me a legal son, and are of proper age, it will be time for a settlement.”
“But you wrote me, if I would take this unfortunate voyage to the Indies, that a portion of the wealth should be mine at once. For her sake I went. It was like giving up life, but I went resolutely, even though she did not reply to the letter which prepared her for my absence.”
“She never got the letter, of course not. I did not believe all the stuff about a marriage, and I don’t now,” answered the old woman, insolently. “Your letter went to kindle my fire. Five good sheets of paper wasted. If it had only been for this extravagance, you ought to have been disinherited. But where is the girl? What has become of her baby? If you are married, bring out the creatures and the documents. If the child is a boy, you have only a few years to wait before there’ll be something to feed him on. Where is the wife and heir?”
The young man arose, without a word, and in this stern silence left the room.
It was many years before the two met again.