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.