CHAPTER XXIV.WHICH RIVER.
“My Friend—One night, while on my beat in the upper part of the city, a young woman, carrying something in her arms, which a large and very rich shawl completely covered, passed me, more than once, in a wild, distracted way, as if looking for something, or some place, which she could not find. I watched her, carefully, as she went back and forth in this strange fashion and at last saw her sink down on a doorstep, when the faint wail of a child came from beneath her shawl. I was about to speak to her, when she lifted her head, saw my uniform, and starting up, came toward me.
“‘Will you tell me, sir, where I can find the river?’
“The voice in which these words were spoken was low and timid. The female who uttered them seemed very young, in the light of that street lamp, which was near enough to reveal her features, as faces are seen in a dream.She was utterly unlike any woman who might have been expected out of doors that time of night, and I looked at her keenly before I made answer to her question; but her head drooped forward on her breast, and I could only discern that the face was both young and fair.
“‘Which river do you ask for?’ I questioned, wondering that a young creature with the address and language of a highly-bred person, could be there to make an inquiry so vague and strange.
“‘Any—no matter which. To find one, shall I turn to the right or left?’
“I was standing above Fiftieth Street on the west, where many vacant lots lay between us and the Hudson, which was not very far off; but shrunk from saying this, and only answered,
“‘If you turn either way there is a river—but this is so strange——’
“The girl did not hear my closing words, but turned to the left, where the houses were scattered and a grove of trees loomed up in the distance, flinging their shadows against the sky. I could not leave my beat, but followed her anxiously with my eyes, and saw that she walked with a slow step, which bespoke great fatigue, if not absolute despair.
“‘This is strange,’ I thought, ‘that voice had a desperate meaning in it. I wonder if she really thinks ofthat; poor soul!—poor soul, she will surely come to grief. If she were not drifting out of my beat, I would follow her!’
“The moon was up, but clouded, and but few stars appeared; so it was mostly by the street-lamps that I kept her in sight, until she passed out of my beat. When I lost sight of her, she was making straight for the river, and hurried on as if urged forward by the fright my face had given her.
“The clock from a far-off steeple struck the hour.
“It was not many minutes before I was relieved, and free to follow the woman, which I did, though she had lost herself among the shadows. I then turned toward the river, and followed the young creature at a cautious distance, until she left the paved street and went into the enclosure of a private mansion, where shrubbery was thick and the grass so elastic that I could approach close to her unnoticed.
“She had heard the heavy rush of flowing waters coming up through the solemn night, and quickened her steps as if the voice of a friend had called to her from a great distance.
“‘Oh, it is there! it is there!’ she moaned, ‘my last—last friend—the only one that will take me in and hide me.’
“Now her footsteps beat swiftly on the turf as she sped onward, guided by the deep whispering of the waves. She was skirting the walls of a garden, over which roses and clustering masses of honeysuckles trailed out of bounds, filling the night air with fragrance, that for one moment evidently checked the girl in her progress; or she was stricken faint with a sudden recoil of conscience, perhaps.
‘They are blossoming now—now around my window, as they did then, just a year—only a year!’ I heard her say.
“The girl wrung her hands, looking wildly around, as if she sought for some human being to pity her; but nothing was near save the faint odor of flowers, that seemed to wither her like poison; and the far off drifts of the river, blended with the flow of a soft wind through innumerable leaves, and the stir of roses under their dew.
“The very fragrance and beauty of the night, while it seemed to lift her soul out of its dull apathy, stung it to desperation. She turned and fled from the garden wall, and I lost her among the great primeval trees, that made the place solitary as a hermitage. Without giving it a thought, I plunged into the shadows of the grove, beyond which the great river was flowing.
“I heard sounds of her progress through the undergrowth, and followed with cautious swiftness; for her dress, her air, and the child that she carried under that shawl, suggested a tragedy, which it was my duty to prevent. The street she had been threading, that immense flower-garden, and the grand old mansion, which seemed as if buried in the heart of a wilderness, the shrubbery was so old and thick around it, were now left behind. I could hardly see my way in the dense thickness of those trees which grew close to the river, flinging their shadows over it, in places, and making the spot so lonely that I felt a thrill of dread, as the contrast between its isolation and the street I had left, broke upon me.
“Everything was quiet. My own footsteps were smothered in the forest-turf, and a gentle shiver of the leaves was all the sound I heard. What had become of that poor girl? Had she already found time to make the plunge I felt sure she meditated. My heart shrunk from the thought, so I watched and waited, feeling the presence of another human soul, as one sometimes knows a thing independent of the senses.
“As I stood in the shadow, something seemed to move on a large sloping-rock, which formed a picturesque feature in one corner of the grounds, on which the trees grew less thickly. That moment, a cloud swept back from the moon, and I saw the woman whom I had frightened so, standing on the rocks, which shot some distance into the stream, where the waters eddied and curled around it with a sweet, monotonous music, that seemed to lure and lure the woman on, till she stood on the very edge. Her shawl was thrown back now, and I saw the child. She did not look at it, but turned her face away, and lifted the infant high in her arms.
“I started forward, but checked myself, for she had fallen down upon the rock, and hugging the child to her bosom, was kissing it with passionate vehemence, calling out.
“‘I cannot—I cannot! Oh, my God! how could I think of it? My child! My child! You are not hurt! There! there! there! Oh, what can I do? what shall I do?’
“Again and again she fell to kissing the little creature, moaning over it like a dumb animal; breaking forth into bitter sobs, now and then, until some fear seized her, and she looked around, evidently terrified by her own voice. Full ten minutes she sat caressing the child, in her passionate despair. Then she arose to her feet once more, uplifted it in her arms, and staggering back, fell prone upon the rock, clasping the infant to her heart.
“The struggle was terrible; but I had faith in the power of a motherhood which could battle so fiercely against an evil resolve, and waited, knowing, that at the worst, I could save her and the child.
“She arose to a sitting posture, very pale and still now, for I could see her face, plainly, in the moonlight; and it was white as snow-white and beautiful. An exclamation almost broke from me.I knew the face!More than once had I marveled at its beauty; more than once had I seen it beaming with love, uplifted to another face, which will never leave my memory—that of a man I love better than a brother.
“Do you understand? Can you guess who this young mother was? I did not know her name; but there was no mistaking that proud, white face.
“The young woman sat a long time, gazing at her child, in the moonlight, as if seized by some apathy of the soul which made that rock its last anchorage.
“At last she took off her shawl, and, kneeling over the little creature, wrapped the garment around it. She did not look at it after this, but arose from her knees, and went staggering away from the river, through a patch of moonlight, and into the shadows, looking toward the rock, continuously, as if she had left her heart behind, and longed to pluck it back to her bosom again.
“After she was gone, I went down to the rock which was now bathed in the beautiful moonlight, and seemed as peaceful as a cradle, for the waters as they swept around it murmured a soft lullaby, and a poisonous vine, which had turned scarlet in the hot sunshine, seemed in its duskiness and dew like an imperial drapery cast around the little creature where it lay.
“A bramble studded with green acrid fruit, which bent it down like the plume from a helmet, drooped its shadow over the infant where it lay muffled in the shawl.
“I put the bramble away and was startled when two great, wide-open eyes looked up at me, through the moonlight, as if wondering at the rough features that met them, instead of the beautiful woman’s face which had drifted away from it through the shadows.
“I took the child in my arms, and laid its little cheek to mine. The touch filled my soul with tenderness; having seen that woman’s face I could not give that child to the almshouse. No, I resolved that she should be my own—the sister of my little Ruth.
“I carried the pretty waif home, and gave her to my wife. She was taken by surprise, and resented the adoption, at first; but it was impossible to resist those pretty, infantile ways, and at last this child became dear to her as our little Ruth. Yes; dear as the boy that was afterwards born to us.
“We kept the fact, that this child was not our own, a secret from every one. Even our children are ignorant that she is not in fact their sister. I never sought to identify the young mother. Remembering how near she had been to murdering her own child, I dared not place it again in her power. Besides, we loved the foundling, and that love grew strong as nature in our hearts.
“You know that I was educated for a better position than has fallen to my lot; and I resolved to give even superioradvantages to my children. My wife is a prudent housekeeper, and out of our small resources we have managed to save money enough for this purpose, and to secure a humble home, in which we are now living. If God spares me, some prosperity may yet be won out of our hard lives. But just now, I am desponding, without reason, for my health is good and my purpose strong. If I should be cut down, what will be the fate of my family? I ask this question with a pang. Have I done right to educate these two girls for a position so much higher than they can ever hope to attain? Have I done right in keeping all that I have told you a secret from Eva herself? Was it not my duty to search out the mother, who had cut her off; thus, perhaps, securing to her a future more promising than anything I had to offer?
“I am asking myself these questions now, and the answer is a selfish one. We could not give her up to another.
“My friend, let me tell you all. The woman who abandoned her child, with such throes of anguish, was no common person. Everything about her bespoke refinement and wealth. The shawl, in which she wrapped her infant, was a rare and costly one. The garments were enriched with the finest lace; the sleeves were looped back with pink coral—such as can only be found in perfection at Naples—fastened with a clasp of gold.
“We kept these things, sacredly, thinking that the time might come when Eva would be driven to seek out her mother. But not while I live. She loves us, and is happy.
“My friend, I have been thinking how suddenly death sometimes comes upon us, and how helpless she will be, with all her fine talents and rare beauty, when I am gone. Thinking of this, how could I help remembering you, my friend of friends. With a tenacity I cannot resist, the thought fastens on me, that I should be doing you a wrongif I withheld our secret from you. Be this as it may, I know that you will be her friend when I am gone. In her time of need, should it ever come, you may search out that portion of her history, which I have, up to this time, shrunk from investigating.
“If love for this child has made me secretive and selfish, you will have the energy to redeem the wrong and place her in the higher position which I solemnly believe to be hers by right.
One thing I charge you. If it should come out that the girl has no legal right to claim her parents, keep this secret from her, forever. She is proud, and so keenly sensitive, that disgrace would kill her; in that case, my humbler name would be far better than a dishonored one, however exalted.
“You are abroad now; but I have kept trace of you through all these years. Once or twice your letters have reached me. I know that you have won a high place among men of genius; that your guardianship will be an honor to this proud girl; that even for my own delicate Ruth you will have some fatherly kindness. Am I wrong in asking this? I think not. You are the only friend of the old time that I have left. In our school days, we loved each other; in our manhood the feeling grew and strengthened. After my death, if that should come, you will be mindful of the old love, and kind to those I leave behind me.
“One thing you will remember. My wife has the clothes, the coral, and the India shawl, in which little Eva was wrapped that night. She will give them to you, reluctantly, I dare say; no misfortune will ever make her willing to part with the girl; but she will remember my charge, and give them up, at your request. Perhaps they will lead to something in your hands.
“Why do I write this now, after so many years ofsilence? I cannot answer. But this evening, a strange, dark presentiment came over me, and I was impelled to place Eva’s story on paper. It can do no harm. My wife will keep it safe till you come, if I am doomed. Doomed! How absurd all this seems in a man of perfect health and more than ordinary strength. It is strange and wild, but troubled times are coming upon the land, times when these death shadows will not be confined to one man. Yet, somehow, I feel with mournful solemnity, that, after I am dead, you will get this paper, and act upon it in behalf of your old friend,
“Leonard Laurence.”
“Leonard Laurence.”
“Leonard Laurence.”
“Leonard Laurence.”