THE RESULT OF DR. SPENLOVE'S MISSION.
An hour after Mr. Moss' departure Mrs. Turner opened her eyes. It was
a moment for which Dr. Spenlove had anxiously waited. He had satisfied
himself that both of his patients were in a fair way of recovery, and
thus far his heart was relieved. The woman who had assisted him had
also taken her departure after having given the babe some warm milk.
Her hunger appeased, the little one was sleeping calmly and peacefully
by her mother's side.
The room was now warm and cheerful. A bright fire was blazing, the
kettle was simmering, and a pot of hot tea was standing on the hearth.
Mrs. Turner gazed around in bewilderment. The one candle in the room
but dimly lighted it up, and the flickering flames of the fire threw
fantastic shadows on walls and ceiling, but so bright was the blaze
that there was nothing distressful in these shadowy phantasmagoria. At
a little distance from the bed stood Dr. Spenlove, his pale face
turned to the waking woman. She looked at him long and steadily, and
did not answer him when he smiled encouragingly at her and spoke a few
gentle words. She passed her hand over the form of her sleeping child,
and then across her forehead, in the effort to recall what had passed.
But her mind was confused; bewildering images of the stages of her
desperate resolve presented themselves--blinding snow, shrieking wind,
the sea which she had not reached, the phantoms she had conjured up
when her senses were deserting her in the white streets.
"Am I alive?" she murmured.
"Happily, dear Mrs. Turner," said Dr. Spenlove. "You are in your own
room, and you will soon be well."
"Who brought me here?"
"I and a good friend I was fortunate enough to meet when I was seeking
you."
"Why did you seek me?"
"To save you."
"To save me! You knew, then----" She paused.
"I knew nothing except that you were in trouble."
"Where did you find me?"
"In the snow, you and your child. A few minutes longer and it would
have been too late. But an angel directed my steps."
"No angel directed you. A devil led you on. Why did you not leave me
to die? It was what I went out for. I confess it," she cried
recklessly. "It was my purpose not to live; it was my purpose not to
allow my child to live! I was justified. Is not a quick death better
than a slow, lingering torture which must end in death? Why did you
save me? Why did you not leave me to die?"
"It would have been a crime."
"It would have been a mercy. You have brought me back to misery. I do
not thank you, doctor."
"You may live to thank me. Drink this tea; it will do you good."
She shook her head rebelliously. "What is the use? You have done me an
ill turn. Had it not been for you I should have been at peace. There
would have been no more hunger, no more privation. There would have
been an end to my shame and degradation."
"You would have taken it with you to the Judgment Seat," said Dr.
Spenlove with solemn tenderness. "There would have been worse than
hunger and privation. What answer could you have made to the Eternal
when you presented yourself before the throne with the crime of murder
on your soul?"
"Murder!" she gasped.
"Murder," he gently repeated. "If you went out to-night with an
intention so appalling it was not only your own life you would have
taken, it was the life of the innocent babe now slumbering by your
side. Can you have forgotten that?"
"No," she answered in a tone of faint defiance, "I have not forgotten
it; I do not forget it. God would have forgiven me."
"He would not have forgiven you."
"He would. What has she to live for? What have I to live for, a lost
and abandoned woman, a mother whose association would bring
degradation upon her child? How should I meet her reproaches when she
grew to be a woman herself? I am not ungrateful for what you have done
for me"--she glanced at the fire and the tea he held in his hand--"but
it cannot continue. To-morrow will come. There is always a to-morrow
to strike terror to the hearts of such as I. Do you know what I have
suffered? Do you see the future that lies before us? What hope is
there in this world for me and my child?"
"There is hope. You brought her into the world."
"God help me, I did!" she moaned.
"By what right, having given her life, would you rob her of the
happiness which may be in store for her?"
"Happiness!" she exclaimed. "You speak to me of happiness!"
"I do, in truth and sincerity, if you are willing to make a sacrifice,
willing to perform a duty."
"What would I not be willing to do," she cried despairingly, "what
would I not cheerfully do, to make her life innocent and happy--not
like mine, oh, not like mine! But you are mocking me with empty
words."
"Indeed I am not," said Dr. Spenlove earnestly. "Since I left you
some hours ago, not expecting to see you again, something has occurred
of which I came to speak to you. I found your room deserted, and
feared--what we will not mention again. I searched and discovered you
in time to save you--and with all my heart I thank God for it. Now
drink this tea. I have much to say to you, and you need strength to
consider it. If you can eat a little bread and butter--ah, you can.
Let me fill your cup again. That is right. Now I recognize the lady it
was my pleasure to be able to assist--not to the extent I would have
wished, because of my own circumstances."
His reference to her as a lady, no less than the respectful
consideration of his manner toward her, brought a flush to her cheeks
as she ate. And indeed she ate ravenously; defiant and desperate as
had been her mood, nature's demands are imperative, and no mortal is
strong enough to resist them. When she had finished he sat by her
side, and was silent a while, debating with himself how he should
approach the task which Mr. Gordon had imposed upon him. She saved him
the trouble of commencing.
"Are you acquainted with the story of my life?" she asked.
"It has been imparted to me," he replied, "by one to whom I was a
stranger till within the last few hours."
"Do I know him?"
"You know him well."
For a moment she thought of the man who had brought her to this gulf
of shame, but she dismissed the thought. It was impossible. He was too
heartless and base to send a messenger to her on an errand of
friendship, and Dr. Spenlove would have undertaken no errand of an
opposite nature.
"Who is the gentleman who takes such an interest in me?"
"Mr. Gordon."
She trembled, and her face grew white. She had wronged this man--the
law might say that she had robbed him. Oh, why had her fatal design
been frustrated, why was not this torturing existence ended?
"You need be under no apprehension," continued Dr. Spenlove; "he comes
as a friend." She tossed her head in scorn of herself as one unworthy
of friendship. "He has but lately arrived in England from the
colonies, and he came with the hope of taking you back with him as his
wife. It is from him I learned the sad particulars of your life.
Believe me when I say that he is desirous to befriend you."
"In what way? Does he offer me money? I have cost him enough already;
my father tricked him, and I have shamefully deceived him. To receive
more from him would fill me with shame, but for the sake of my child I
will submit to any sacrifice, to any humiliation--I will do anything,
anything! It would well become me to show pride when charity is
offered to me!"
"Do not forget those words--'for the sake of your child you will
submit to any sacrifice.' It is your duty, for her sake, to accept any
honorable proposition, and Mr. Gordon offers nothing that is not
honorable." He sighed as he said this, for he thought of the
sacredness of a mother's love for her firstborn. "He will not give you
money apart from himself. United to him, all he has is yours. He
wishes to marry you."
She stared at him in amazement. "Are you mad," she cried, "or do you
think that I am?"
"I am speaking the sober truth. Mr. Gordon has followed you here
because he wishes to marry you."
"Knowing me for what I am," she said, still incredulous, "knowing that
I am in the lowest depths of degradation, knowing this"--she touched
her child with a gentle hand--"he wishes to marry me!"
"He knows all. There is not an incident in your career with which he
does not seem to be acquainted, and in the errand with which he has
charged me he is sincerely in earnest."
"Dr. Spenlove," she said slowly, "what is your opinion of a man who
comes forward to pluck from shame and poverty a woman, who has been
wronged as I have wronged Mr. Gordon?"
"His actions speak for him," replied Dr. Spenlove.
"He must have a noble nature," she said. "I never regarded him in that
light. I took him to be a hard, conscientious, fair-dealing man, who
thought I would make him a good wife, but I never believed that he
loved me. I did him the injustice of supposing him incapable of love.
I am not worthy of him, or of any man."
"Set your mind not upon the past, but upon the future. Think of
yourself and of your child in the years to come, and remember the fear
and horror by which you have been oppressed in your contemplation of
them. I have something further to disclose to you. Mr. Gordon imposes
a condition from which he will not swerve, and to which I beg of you
to listen with calmness. When you have heard all do not answer
hastily. Reflect upon the consequences which hang on your decision,
and bear in mind that you have to make that decision before I leave
you. I am to take your answer to him to-night; he is waiting in my
rooms to receive it."
Then, softening down all that was harsh in the proposal and magnifying
all its better points, Dr. Spenlove related to her what had passed
between Mr. Gordon and himself. She listened in silence, and he could
not judge from her demeanor whether he was to succeed or to fail.
Frequently she turned her face from his tenderly searching gaze, as
though more effectually to conceal her thoughts from him. When he
finished speaking she showed that she had taken to heart his counsel
not to decide hastily, for she did not speak for several minutes. Then
she said plaintively:
"There is no appeal, doctor?"
"None," he answered in a decisive tone.
"He sought you out and made you his messenger, because of his
impression that you had influence with me, and would advise me for my
good?"
"As I have told you--in his own words as nearly as I have been able to
recall them."
"He was right. There is no man in the world I honor more than I honor
you. I would accept what you say against my own convictions, against
my own feelings. Advise me, doctor. My mind is distracted--I cannot be
guided by it. You know what I am, you know what I have been, you
foresee the future that lies before me. Advise me."
The moment he dreaded had arrived. The issue was with him. He felt
that this woman's fate was in his hands.
"My advice is," he said in a low tone, "that you accept Mr. Gordon's
offer."
"And cast aside a mother's duty?"
"What did you cast aside," he asked sadly, "when you went with your
child on such a night as this toward the sea?"
She shuddered. She would not look at her child; with stern resolution
she kept her eyes from wandering to the spot upon which the infant
lay. She even moved away from the little body so that she should not
come in contact with it.
A long silence ensued, which Dr. Spenlove dared not break.
"I cannot blame him," she then said, her voice now and again broken by
a sob, "for making conditions. It is his respectability that is at
stake, and he is noble and generous for taking such a risk upon
himself. It would be mockery for me to say that I love my child with a
love equal to that I should have felt if she had come into the world
without the mark of shame with which I have branded her. With my love
for her was mingled a loathing of myself, a terror of the living
evidence of my fall. But I love her, doctor, I love her--and never yet
so much as now when I am asked to part with her! What I did a while
ago was done in a frenzy of despair; I had no food, you see, and she
was crying for it; and the horror and the anguish of that hour may
overpower me again if I am left as I am. I will accept Mr. Gordon's
offer, and I will be as good a wife to him as it is in my power to
be--but I, also, have a condition to make. Mr. Gordon is much older
than I, and it may be that I shall outlive him. The condition I make
is--and whatever the consequences I am determined to abide by it--that
in the event of my husband's death and of there being no children of
our union, I shall be free to seek the child I am called upon to
desert. In everything else I will perform my part of the contract
faithfully. Take my decision to Mr. Gordon, and if it is possible for
you to return here to-night with his answer I implore you to do so. I
cannot close my eyes, I cannot rest, until I hear the worst. God alone
knows on which side lies the right, on which the wrong!"
"I will return with his answer," said Dr. Spenlove, "to-night."
"There is still something more," she said in an imploring tone, "and
it must be a secret sacredly kept between you and me. It may happen
that you will become acquainted with the name of the guardian of my
child. I have a small memorial which I desire she shall retain until
she is of age, say until she is twenty-one, or until, in the event of
my husband's death, I am free to seek her in years to come. If you do
not discover who the guardian is I ask you to keep this memorial for
me until I reclaim it--which may be never. Will you do this for me?"
"I will."
"Thank you for all your goodness to me. But I have nothing to put the
memorial in. Could you add to your many kindnesses by giving me a
small box which I can lock and secure? Dear Dr. Spenlove, it is a
mother who will presently be torn from her child who implores you."
He bethought him of a small iron box he had at home, which contained
some private papers of his own. He could spare this box without
inconvenience to himself, and he promised to bring it to her--and so,
with sincere words of consolation, he left her.
In the course of an hour he returned. Mr. Gordon had consented to the
condition she imposed.
"Should I be thankful or not?" she asked wistfully.
"You should be thankful," he replied. "Your child, rest assured, will
have a comfortable and happy home. Here is the box and the key. It is
a patent lock--no other key will unlock it. I will show you how to use
it. Yes, that is the way." He paused a moment, his hand in his pocket.
"You will be ready to meet Mr. Gordon at three to-morrow?"
"And my child?" she asked, with tears in her voice. "When will that be
taken from me?"
"At twelve." His hand was still fumbling in his pocket, and he
suddenly shook his head, as if indignant with himself. "You may want
to purchase one or two little things in the morning. Here are a few
shillings. Pray accept them."
He laid on the table the money with which he had intended to pay his
fare to London.
"Heaven reward you," said the grateful woman, "and make your life
bright and prosperous!"
Her tears bedewed his hand as she kissed it humbly, and Dr. Spenlove
walked wearily home once more, penniless, but not unhappy.