THE YOUNG MAN’S RETURN.
Directly Madame De Marke unlocked the door, and a tall young man of
stately presence and a grave cast of countenance entered. He reached
forth his hand, with a sort of painful reservation, toward the singular
old creature whom he found there.
“So, it is you at last!” said the latter, in a soft, cajoling voice. “I
began to think you had forgotten your poor old mother.”
“Forgotten you! No, no, that were impossible,” was the hasty reply. “But
you are alone, you seem to be living quite alone. Where is Catharine?”
“Catharine? Oh, yes, the girl. She hasn’t been here this year or more. A
hard case that, George.”
He started, and looked at her sternly.
“What do you mean, madame?” he said. “Where, I say, where is Catharine?
I left her with you! I demand her of you again.”
“You left her with me, of course you did. Wasn’t she my own help, bound
to me till she was eighteen by the city authorities? Of course you left
her here, why not?”
The young man grew pale, and his eyes darkened with intense anxiety; but
he restrained his impetuous feelings, and spoke in a voice so low, that
it was almost a whisper.
“Tell me, I entreat, madame, where is this girl now?”
“How should I know? She ran away after you sailed.”
“Ran away? where? Where?”
“You needn’t ask me. How should I know? What carries a wild girl into
the streets?”
“The streets!” cried the young man, in a husky whisper. “The streets!”
“I believe,” said the old woman, unfeelingly, “she brought up at the
prison or Almshouse, at last.”
“Prison! Almshouse! Madame, woman, how dare you confess that she was so
far deserted, the poor, poor girl. Was she ill? Was she wronged? Tell me
why this destitution fell upon her!”
The old woman fixed her keen eyes on the excited and stern face of the
young man, with a hard, determined look that made the heart tremble in
his bosom; and he shrunk back with mortal dread, as if a rattlesnake
were about to spring upon him.
“She had disgraced my house, sir, and I sent her out of it.” The young
man started back, and turned white to the very lips.
“Not, not!—woman, tell me what this means!”
The woman was ruthless. The glitter grew sharper and keener in her eyes.
She had no compassion on the terrible agitation that shook the young
man.
“Go up to the Almshouse, if you want to know more. She may be there yet
with her child!”
“With her child, her child? my wife, my poor, poor wife! I tell you,
woman, she was my wife. Before God and man, she is my wife—mine, mine—do
you hear?”
“Yes, I hear; she said the same thing. I didn’t believe her. I don’t
believe you. It is the old crazy blood up. You would cover her shame
with your own. Like father, like son.”
“Woman, you insult me, you wrong that dear girl!” cried the young man,
trembling with passion, “I repeat again, she was my wife!”
“Perhaps you can give me the proof?” said the old woman, holding out her
hand, while a quiet sneer stole across her lips. “She had nothing to
show—you may be better off!”
“Catharine has the proofs. I left them with her.”
The old woman laughed, or rather hissed out her satisfaction.
“She was a careless thing to lose them, I must say that. All I asked was
some written proof of her story. If she had a certificate, why not show
it? I wouldn’t have let her go to the Almshouse, if she had!”
The old woman seemed to love the repetition of this hateful word, the
Almshouse, for she saw that it made the young man wince; and this was a
joy to her.
The poor youth made no reply, but sat down, faint with suffering; for
now he began to comprehend the utter misery of his position. Months had
passed since his poor young wife could have known the shelter of a
respectable home. What might she not have endured, so young, so
helpless, a mere child in years! How terribly she must have suffered.
The cruelty of his miserable old stepmother was lost in the rush of
remorseful compassion that filled his soul. With all this flood of
sorrow came a new birth of feeling, so strong, so intense, that it
thrilled him from head to foot. He scarcely recognized it as a joy, it
was so strange, burning like a drop of elixir through all the pain and
disappointment that had fallen upon him.
He was a father! A living soul had started from the immortal life within
him; and the thought swept like solemn music through his stormy
passions, giving dignity and depth to his manner.
He turned from the old woman with new-born gentleness. His white lips
quivered with tender emotion, his eyes grew dark and misty, he forgot
that the creature before him had trampled all that he loved in the dust.
Thoughts of his wife and child filled his whole being. He turned away,
and was passing through the door, when Madame De Marke addressed him.
“Where are you going?” she said.
“In search of my wife and child!”
The last word thrilled through and through his whole being. His face,
that had been pale till now, flushed to the temples, and a smile of
ineffable sweetness broke over his lips, as the word, “My child,” left
them. He even looked at the wicked old woman as if demanding sympathy
for his new joy from her.
“If they are upon earth, I shall find them,” he said, “by to-morrow, at
the furthest, I shall find them.”
“And what will you do with them when they are found?” demanded the old
woman, maliciously.
“What will I do?” said the youth, “what will I do? Why, give up my
strong manhood to their support; for I am strong now.”
And so he was. Youth and hope and earnest feeling gave to his nature the
energy of middle age.
He went down those flights of winding stairs, with every nerve of his
body awake to the joy singing at his heart. What cared he that his child
was born in an Almshouse? Was it not _his_ child, was not Catharine
alive? Was he not young, and strong to work, to suffer, to be her
protector, body and soul forever? For he could imagine no time when his
love for the sweet girl would cease to be immortal.
What cared he, that, by his father’s will, Madame De Marke had power to
withhold his inheritance for a time? Let her have it. The West was broad
and land plenty; a log house among the prairies, with Catharine and her
child, would be heaven enough for him. While these hopeful thoughts
floated through his brain, the old woman listened to his light
footsteps, grasping the door with one hand, while her witch-like face
peered through into the dark passage. When his footsteps died away, she
drew back, and closed herself in, with a low chuckle.
She sat down, dropping one hand on her lap with a quickness that
impressed the cat as a signal; and leaping upon the old woman’s knee,
the animal sat there, gazing into the evil brightness of her eyes with a
look of kindred intelligence.
The woman smoothed the ragged back of her favorite with one hand, while
a grin of satisfaction disturbed her mouth.
“I hope he will find ’em, Peg, don’t you?”
The cat crept upward, and laid her paws on the old woman’s shoulder;
then with a leap that made her mistress give forth a cowardly scream,
she sprang over, and seizing a poor little mouse that was attempting to
escape under the door, began to torture it with her paws.
Madame De Marke sat up half an hour later than usual that night,
watching the cat as she prolonged her malicious enjoyment, looking away
from its trembling victim now and then as if to claim her sympathy.
“That’ll do! that’ll do, Peg!” said the old woman at last, waving her
hand as if to command an execution; “I’m getting sleepy, Peg, kill the
thing.”
The cat turned her head, holding down the victim with one claw.
“Don’t you hear, Peg?” said the old woman, starting up, “kill it, I
say!”
The cat made a quick movement, and away darted the mouse through a
crevice between the door and the threshold. The old woman laughed with
great glee, while Peg slunk away under the bed, looking very much
ashamed of her bungling; but when the tallow candle was put out, and
Madame safe in bed, she ventured to creep out and coil herself up over
the old woman’s feet; and with this companionship alone was Madame de
Marke left, not only that night, but for months after.