XXVII
THE FINAL STRUGGLE
She, however, did not get off that night. I dared not push the matter tothe point of awakening suspicion, and when the doctor said that the shipwas not due for twenty hours and that it would be madness for her tostart without a night's rest and two or three good meals, I succumbedand she also to the few hours' delay. More than that, she consented toretire, and when I joined her in her carriage the following morning, itwas to find her physically stronger, even if the mind was still a preyto deepest anguish and a torturing indecision. Her nurse accompanied usand the maid called Celia, so conversation was impossible--a fact I didnot know whether to be thankful for or not. On the cars she was shieldedas much as possible from every one's gaze, and when we reached New Yorkwe were driven at once to the Plaza. As I noticed the respect andintense sympathy with which her presence was met by those who sawnothing in her broken aspect but a mother's immeasurable grief, Iwondered at the secrets which lie deep down in the hearts of humanity,and what the effect would be if I should suddenly shout aloud:
"She is more wretched than you think. Her suspense is one that thechild's return would not appease. Dig deeper into mortal fear and woe ifyou would know what has changed this beautiful woman into a shadow infive days."
And I myself did not know her mind. I could neither foresee what shecontemplated nor what the effect of seeing the child again would haveupon her. I only knew that she must never for a moment be out of sightof some one who loved her. I myself never left the hall upon which herroom opened, a precaution for which I felt grateful when, late in theevening, she opened the door and, seeing me, stepped out fully dressedfor the street.
"Come and tell Sister Angelina that I may be trusted with you," shesaid. Sister Angelina was the nurse.
Of course I did as she bade me, and after some few more difficulties Isucceeded in getting her into a carriage without attracting any specialattention. Once there she breathed more easily, and so did I.
"Now take me to _her_," she said. Whether she meant Mrs. Carew orGwendolen, I never knew.
I now saw that the hour had come for telling her that she no longer needhave any fear of Doctor Pool. Whatever she contemplated must be donewith a true knowledge of where she stood and to just what extent hersecret remained endangered. I do not know if she felt grateful. I almostthink that for the first few minutes she felt rather frightened thanrelieved to find herself free to act as her wishes and the preservationof her place in her husband's heart and the world's regard impelled her.For she never for a moment seemed to doubt that now the doctor was gone.I would yield to her misery and prove myself the friend she had beggedme to be from the first. She turned herself toward me and sought to readmy face, but it was rather to find out what I expected of her than whatshe had yet to fear from me. I noted this and muttered some words ofconfidence; but her mood had already changed, and they fell on deafears.
I was not present at the meeting of the two women. That is, I remainedin what they would call a private parlor, while Mrs. Ocumpaugh passedinto the inner room, where she knew she would find Mrs. Carew and thechild. Nor did I hear much. Some words came through the partition. Icaught most of Mrs. Carew's explanation of how she came to give up hernew-born child. She was an actress at the time with a London success toher credit, but with no hold as yet in this country. She was booked fora tour the coming season; the husband who might have seen to the childwas dead; she had no friends, no relatives here save a brother poorerthan herself, and the mother instinct had not awakened. She bartered herchild away as she would have parted with any other encumbrance likely tointerfere with her career. But--here her voice rose and I hearddistinctly: "A fortune was suddenly left me. An old admirer dying abroadbequeathed me two million dollars, and I found myself rich, admired andindependent, with no one on earth to care for or to share the happinessof what seemed to me, after the brilliant life I had hitherto led, adreary inaction. Love had no interest for me. I had had a husband, andthat part of my nature had been satisfied. What I wanted now--and thewish presently grew into a passion--was my child. From passion it grewto mania. Knowing the name of her to whom I had yielded it (I hadoverheard it in the doctor's office), I hunted up your residence andcame one day to Homewood.
"Perhaps some old servant can be found there to-day who could tell youof the strange, deeply veiled lady who was found one evening at sunset,clinging to the gate with both hands and sobbing as she looked in at thetriumphant little heiress racing up and down the walks with the greatmastiff, Don. They will say that it was some poor crazy woman, or somemother who had buried her own little darling; but it was I, Marion, itwas I, looking upon the child I had sold for a half-year's independence;I who was broken-hearted now for her smiles and touches and saw them allgiven to strangers, who had made her a princess, but who could nevergive her such love as I felt for her then in my madness. I went awaythat time, but I came again soon with the titles of the adjoiningproperty in my pocket. I could not keep away from the sight of her, andfelt that the torture would be less to see her in your arms than not tosee her at all."
The answer was not audible, but I could well imagine what it was. Asevery one knew, the false mother had not long held out against theattractions of the true one. Instinct had drawn the little one to theheart that beat responsive to its own.
What followed I could best judge from the frightened cry which the childsuddenly gave. She had evidently waked to find both women at herbedside. Mrs. Carew's "Hush! hush!" did not answer this time; the childwas in a frenzy, and evidently turned from one to the other, sobbing outalternately, "I will not be a girl again. I like my horse and going topapa and sailing on the big ocean, in trousers and a little cap," andthe softer phrases she evidently felt better suited to Mrs. Ocumpaugh'sdeep distress: "Don't feel bad, mamma, you shall come see me some time.Papa will send for you. I am going to him." Then silence, then such astruggle of woman-heart with woman-heart as I hope never to be witnessto again. Mrs. Ocumpaugh was pleading with Mrs. Carew, not for thechild, but for her life. Mr. Ocumpaugh would be in port the nextmorning; if she could show him the child all would be well. Mr. Trevittwould manage the details; take the credit of having found Gwendolensomewhere in this great city, and that would insure him the reward andthem his silence. (I heard this.) There was no one else to fear. DoctorPool, the cause of all this misery, was dead; and in the future, herheart being set to rest about her secret, she would be happier and makethe child happier, and they could enjoy her between them, and she wouldbe unselfish and let Gwendolen spend an hour or more every day with Mrs.Carew, on some such plea as lessons in vocal-training and music.
Thus pleaded Mrs. Ocumpaugh.
But the mother hardly listened. She had eaten with the child, slept withthe child and almost breathed with the child for three days now, and theecstasy of the experience had blinded her to any other claim than herown. She pitied Mrs. Ocumpaugh, pitied most of all her deceivedhusband, but no grief of theirs could equal that of Rachel crying forher child. Let Mrs. Ocumpaugh remember that when the evil days come. Shehad separated child from mother! child from mother! Oh, how the wailswept through those two rooms!
I dared not prophesy to myself at this point how this would end. Isimply waited.
Their voices had sunk after each passionate outbreak, and I was onlyable to catch now and then a word which told me that the struggle wasyet going on.
But finally there came a lull, and while I wondered, the door flewsuddenly open and I saw Mrs. Ocumpaugh standing on the threshold, pallidand stricken, looking back at the picture made by the other two as Mrs.Carew, fallen on her knees by the bedside, held to her breast thepanting child.
"I can not go against nature," said she. "Keep Gwendolen, and may Godhave pity upon me and Philo."
I stepped forward. Meeting my eye, she faltered this last word:
"Your advice was good. To-morrow when I meet my husband I will tell himwho found the child and why that child is not at my side to greet him."
* * * * *
That night I had a vision. I saw a door--shut, ominous. Before that doorstood a woman, tall, pale, beautiful. She was there to enter, but towhat no mortal living could say. She saw nothing but loss and thehollowness of a living death behind that closed door.
But who knows? Angels spring up unknown on the darkest road, andperhaps--
Here the vision broke; the day and its possibilities lay before me.
THE END
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