A STRANGE CONFESSION
The girl who had been wrongfully accused was not so light hearted. Mrs.
Dane still preserved her suspicious aspect, and of course the whole
school was eager for every bit of news. Lilian said nothing to her
mother about the talk, she seemed rather fretful and uneasy, as if she
was annoyed by the girl's presence.
So on Thursday afternoon she went out for a walk. Just beyond the gate
she saw Edith Trenham coming toward her.
"Oh, were you going out? Let us walk together, then. I have so much to
say to you? Did you think it queer?"
"I know now," said Lilian. "It was dreadful!"
"I had to go home for some important school papers, and just slipped in
and out again when you saw me. Of course I did not want it spoken of.
Mother has been very careful keeping the windows on that side of the
house closed. Claire has never had any of the infantile diseases. The
woman thought it measles at first, but they are so particular in the
schools, now. We closed today. Mother is going to shut up the house for
awhile and board at Mrs. Lane's while they fumigate and burn up. The
authorities have ordered the old house torn down. I think not a great
many people visited her, though they did at first. I only hope the
little girl will not die. Mother spoke to the oldest one that morning
and she said her brothers were very ill and that her mother thought she
would have a doctor, but it was too late when he came. Oh, I hope there
will not be any more cases."
"It would be terrible if they died like that. Our classes are dismissed
as well, I believe there was a great fright among the girls, and just at
Christmas time, too."
"Will you go down with me tomorrow and have a look at the stores? This
has upset our plans. I wanted you and your mother to come and take
Christmas dinner with us."
"Mother doesn't seem at all well. I doubt if she could go out, and I
couldn't leave her for pleasure."
"Well, some other time; and how are you getting along? I suppose you
have vacation as well?"
"Oh yes. Madame thinks I shall acquire French easily. She reads French
verses so splendidly, and I am doing well in Latin, but oh, there are
such stores of reading! It is a hardship to tear myself away, and poetry
just enchants me--well, when it is high and fine. I have begun 'The
Idylls of the King.' Oh it must be just glorious to write such poetry!"
"It is a rare gift, and it is something to be able to read and
appreciate."
"I sometimes envy the girls who have so much leisure, yet they seem not
to improve it. But then--oh, you don't know how lovely it is here, how
much there is to interest and satisfy. Of course I'm not _quite_
satisfied at present," and Lilian gave a light laugh, "but the town is
so truly beautiful and the house--I wonder if it is silly but I walk
about at times and do enjoy the soft rugs, the handsome furniture, the
pictures, the beautiful bits of art scattered around, and oh, the books!
There never was anything like it in my life before, and if I go back to
comparative poverty, which I suppose I shall some day, for I never can
earn any thing like this, it will linger in my mind as a journey to some
enchanting place. There is so much to learn all the time. Not merely out
of books but the sweet and gracious things one can do; Mrs. Barrington
is so lovely. Am I tiring you with these visionary things?"
"No, my dear girl, I am glad you can enjoy them and treasure them up
without a feeling of envy. We cannot all of us abound in this world's
goods, but we can be glad someone has them and is willing to share them
with us, at least, allow us to look on."
"I'm going to study every day and get on as fast as possible. I'm
longing for the time when I can earn money and have a little home of our
own. I wish"--then she paused and recovering herself after a moment,
resumed--"I wish to make some nice friends in my own walk in life, among
those who really love to work and bring about results."
"And I am sure you will do it. And loving whatever is fine and true and
gracious shapes one's character. God has given us the sense of enjoyment
and he means us to make the best use of it that we can. Oh, we must turn
about. See how far we have walked, and there is a baby crescent moon."
The dun white of the sky was thinning into blue and here and there a
star pricked through. It was clear and crisp yet the air had a fragrance
of the cedars and spruces. They hurried along, and Lilian promised to
meet her friend tomorrow for another walk. She had never been an
effusive girl, but she could talk so easily to Edith and in the
interchange she could throw off the things that annoyed or depressed
her.
So they said good-night and she entered the pretty vestibule where she
had first seen Mrs. Barrington. Her heart gave a quick bound as she
thought of that lady's confidence in her truth. Mrs. Dane must sometime
be convinced of her injustice.
She ran lightly up the stairs, wondering a little that her mother's room
should be in darkness. Crossing over to the match safe she stumbled over
something on the floor and struck a light in half terror.
"Oh mother! mother!" she cried to the prostrate figure. Then in sudden
fear she called in the hall--"Oh, will some one come! I cannot tell what
has happened to mother."
Miss Arran answered. The face was deadly white and cold, the eyes half
open, staring.
"Oh, she is dead! I went out to walk and staid too long." Lilian's voice
was full of remorseful pathos.
"No," said Miss Arran. "I think she has only fainted. Her heart beats a
little; Let us lay her on the bed and I'll get some restoratives. Is she
accustomed to fainting?"
"Not like this. Oh poor mother!"
They laid her on the bed, chafed her hands and bathed her face, using
the lavender salts. After a little there was a faint respiration. Then
she opened her eyes and murmured something.
"Mother, dear, what happened? And I was away." "It will be better
when--when I'm gone." The vague glance seemed to study the girl with
poignant anguish. "Oh, yes!--better--"
"You must not say that. You must live to let me repay you for all you
have done for me, and we will be happy--"
She moved her head from side to side in dissent. "Oh, you do not know,
but I did it for love's sake. I could not live without my child."
"Suppose we get her undressed, she will feel more comfortable. She has
not looked well for the last week or two. Mrs. Barrington was speaking
about it, but she is such a quiet body."
Lilian opened the bed. She was girlishly glad her mother's night dress
was neat and lace trimmed, fit to go to her new home. So they soon had
her easier and restful.
"I should like a cup of tea," she said, weakly.
"I'll get it," and Miss Arran left the room.
"Dear mother," and Lilian patted the hands that were thin and cold.
"Oh, love me a little to the end, I've loved you so much. Whatever comes
you will know I did it for love's sake, and you must forgive."
"There can be nothing to forgive. You have worked for me early and late.
You must live and let me repay you, make you happy. If I have failed in
the past I will try with all my soul and strength in the future. Think,
every year brings us nearer the home I shall make for you. Oh, do not
talk of dying!"
"You don't know. I did not think of the wrong then. You were a
motherless babe, then, and I was a childless mother. For you must know,
you must have felt in your inmost soul that I was not your true mother."
Lilian raised her head in the wildest dismay, and though she stared at
Miss Arran she did not seem to see her. Many a time like a lightning
flash the thought had swept over her, but it seemed awful to have it put
in words, to have the certainty pierce through her like a sharp sword.
"Oh, mother, you do not know what you are saying. It is some wretched,
horrid dream! You have been too much alone. You have brooded over this
thought of our differences. Children and parents are often unlike. At
all events I have never known any other mother. You must live and let me
prove a true daughter."
"I did not think there could be any wrong then. If you were cast on the
world friendless, why should I not fill my aching heart with baby love.
Yes, you did love me then, you clung to me. I never thought of there
being someone else--a father, perhaps--oh, heaven help us both!"
She had raised herself soon after she began to talk; now she fell back
on the pillow fainting. Lilian was sobbing. Miss Arran came to her
relief.
"I think we must have a physician. I will see Mrs. Barrington."
The faint was of short duration. Miss Arran was strangely mystified. Was
Mrs. Boyd's talk an hallucination or some secret kept for years that
must needs make its way out at last? Had she any right to repeat it on
mere suspicion?
Mrs. Barrington sent for Dr. Kendricks at once. Then she went to Mrs.
Boyd's room. How very frail she looked.
"My poor child," the lady said, "this is very hard for you, and I think
you did not come in to dinner. Suppose you go down stairs for awhile?"
"Oh, no, I must stay here. Poor mother--"
"Lilian," murmured the feeble voice and the thin hand wandered out as if
for a clasp.
She took it, pressed it to her lips, her firm, warm cheek. Should she
pray for life? Would not God send what was best? Oh, that she might have
strength to accept it. She raised her eyes to Mrs. Barrington in
entreaty. Oh, who was she so like at that moment?
The doctor was announced. Miss Arran sat by the bedside. There was a
lamp on the table and he asked that it might be lighted, making a close
survey of the patient.
"Was there any shock? Her vitality is at a very low ebb. When was the
first unconscious spell?"
"I was out," began Lilian, tremulously. "She insisted that I should go
and seemed to want to be alone. I staid longer than I meant, and found
her fallen to the floor--"
Mrs. Boyd raised to a partly sitting posture and looked up with feverish
eagerness.
"I went to put something in the chiffonier--you will find it, Lilian, in
a box and the key is--oh, what did I do with it?"
"Never mind, dear," in a soft tone.
"But _you_ must mind, and then I turned--it was my leg. It is heavy and
I can't raise it, but the ache is all gone."
Dr. Kendricks turned down the blanket and examined the limb, nodding as
if convinced.
"Oh," she cried, "is it paralysis? Then it will not be long. My mother
had two strokes a week apart, her mother never rallied from the first.
I'm tired--worn out, and Lilian will be better off without me. She may
find--I have written it all out--it's there in the drawer--"
"Oh mother!" Lilian kissed her and put her back on the pillow where she
gave a gasping sigh.
Dr. Kendricks beckoned Mrs. Barrington out of the room.
"She is in a very low condition and I doubt if she survives more than a
few days. What about the girl--_is_ it her daughter?"
"Why, yes--though they are very dissimilar; but she is a devoted
daughter. The mother is caretaker, the daughter a student."
"She seems to have exhausted nature. The fainting spells may be a method
of rest. Let her sleep all she can. Very little can be done for her. I
will leave some drops to be given if she is very restless and will look
in in the morning. It is rather unfortunate this should happen to you,
just now."
"Oh, school has closed and there is plenty of help. I want everything
done for her."
Then Mrs. Barrington returned to the room. Miss Arran sat by the foot of
the bed, Lilian was bathing her mother's face.
"My child," Mrs. Barrington said, "you had better lie down and get a
little rest. We will watch--"
"No, I want Lilian," entreated the mother. "You will not leave me? When
I am a little rested I want to tell you how it came--"
"Yes, yes, but not now. I would rather stay here. It is my place, and
now there are no other duties."
So the hours wore on. Mrs. Boyd seemed to fall into a tranquil sleep.
Lilian laid down on her own bed, and slept in a disturbed sort of
fashion. Then morning came, and the house was astir.
"Oh, Miss Arran have you watched all night? How good you are!"
"I had several naps. Your mother was very quiet. She seems better. Mrs.
Dane is coming in and you must get some breakfast. Then if we need a
nurse--"
"Oh, no, do not have one. My place is here. Oh, Miss Arran," and Lilian
turned deadly pale, "you heard what she said last evening. It _can't_ be
true. Would any one ever work and make sacrifices for a child not her
own? She _is_ my mother."
Miss Arran nodded. "Unless she is much worse I do not think we will need
a nurse. There will be so little to do in the house that I shall be
quite at liberty."
"Yes, Mrs. Boyd was much stronger," the doctor admitted, though the case
was not much more hopeful. A second stroke might end it all. "But she
seems to have something on her mind. Is it anxiety about her daughter?"
"I have assured her that Lilian will be my charge. She has the making of
an unusually fine scholar, and she is a high minded, honorable girl,
sincere and ambitious."
"The daughter has taken from somewhere a much stronger physical and
mental equipment. What of the father?"
"Oh, he died when she was a mere infant."
The embargo had been removed from Lilian and Mrs. Dane treated her with
a sort of tolerant sympathy. She roamed about the deserted library and
chose some books, a few girls waylaid her in the school room. Miss
Nevins made an importunate appeal, quite forgetting her past disdain.
"Oh, why can't you stay down here?" she cried. "It's awful dull, and
there's no fun going on. Miss Graniss is going to take us down town when
the stores are lighted up, but it's so long to wait until evening."
"Mother is ill and I want to stay with her," Lilian returned coldly,
provoked at the selfishness. She read awhile, then took up some
embroidery. Miss Trenham came in with the gift of a beautiful volume of
poems. Claire sent a little reminder in a most exquisite book mark. She
was quite delighted in the change to another home, where there were two
girls. "Could Edith do anything for them?"
"They are all so good here, and mother doesn't need much, she seems to
sleep a good deal."
The sick girl at the Clairvoyant's was improving. Not even a case of
measles had been reported in town.
So the winter day drew to a close. Lilian watched the little procession
starting out under the convoy of Miss Graniss. Yes, she had run out that
way at Laconia--how long ago it seemed. Oh, she ought to have sent a few
gifts to old girl friends. She had really no heart for gladness.
Lilian sat over by the gas burner reading that most beautiful Christmas
part of "In Memoriam." She almost heard the "happy bells ring across the
snow," so rapt was she in the poets charm. Then something stirred. Her
mother was trying to raise herself.
"Oh mother--"
"Put the pillows around me, so, I want to sit up. I want to talk. I have
been living it over. And I am surely going to that other country. I
shall have my own two babies in my arms, and their father will come to
meet me. I want to tell you how it was. It has come back so distinctly,
much plainer than when I wrote it."
Miss Arran had started to come in but paused at the door. Lilian's back
was towards her. Mrs. Dane going through the hall paused as Miss Arran
held up her finger.
"Oh, mother, not tonight."
"Yes, now. I feel so strong. After husband died my brother sent for me
and wanted me to take up some land adjoining his. Mr. Holland, who was
holding the life insurance--all I had, was not willing until I had seen
what the place was like and he thought that kind of life very hard on
women, but my brother was the only relative I had, though I had not seen
him for years. After I had started I was frightened about the journey
and the strange people. There was one woman with a baby, a bright,
beautiful child with rosy cheeks and brilliant eyes. I supposed her the
mother, for I saw her nurse the infant, and there was with them such a
beautiful woman. She came to me in the night, and when I looked at her
the last time she was dead," and she sighed.
"We were most of us asleep when there was an awful crash. Then horrible
shrieks and cries and being thrown about--"
"Oh, mother, don't, don't!" Lilian implored. "Your mind is wandering--"
"No, it is true, horribly true. It was one of the awful accidents of
that time, more than fifteen years ago, but I suppose I became
unconscious. My babe flew out of my arms; my little baby," in a
lingering tone as if the words were sweet to say.
"When I came to myself it was in a room where several were lying around
on cots, and two women sat close together trying to hush the crying
child."
"Give me my baby, I almost shrieked. Bring me my baby."
"They brought it and I hugged it to my breast, gave it nourishment,
cuddled it in my arms and I fell asleep full of joy. We both slept a
long while. When I woke the woman brought me a cup of tea and some
bread. I was ravenously hungry. Then I asked what had happened. It had
been twenty-four hours."
"It was a horrible accident at a place where tracks crossed. All day
they had been clearing away the wreck and sending bodies into the
nearest towns for this place was small. A number had been killed
outright. Will you give me some of that tea in the tumbler?"
"Oh, mother, do not tell any more," the girl pleaded, shuddering.
"Yes, I must, I must! When morning came the woman helped me up and I had
some breakfast. I had been stunned and bruised, but no bones were
broken."
"We are so glad the baby was yours," one of the women said. "The other
poor baby and its mother was killed."
"I went to the bed presently and turned down the blanket. There lay the
lovely child warm and rosy, the picture of health. I devoured it with
kisses. Yes, it was mine. God had saved it and sent it to me. It had no
mother, so it was mine. I called it by my baby's name, and I couldn't
have cared more for my own flesh and blood. You were so beautiful and
bright--so fond and loving. On the other side of the room lay the lovely
woman who had interested me so much. They thought her dying, she looked
as if she were dead, I never saw anything more perfect. She was like
sculptured marble. They were trying to get every one away and the next
day an official questioned me and offered to make good any loss. I had
my ticket pinned to the lining of my dress, and what money I had taken
with me sewed up in a little bag. There had been a fire as well, and
much of the baggage was burned. I had lost my trunk but they paid me its
full value and more, and sent me on my journey."
"I have told you what a dismal place my brother had in Wisconsin. There
were five big, rough children. I was not fitted for farm work. I missed
my old friends and so I went back to Laconia, but my whole life was
wrapped up in you."
"And many a time I must have seemed ungrateful. Oh, mother, when you did
so much for me!" sobbed Lilian.
"Oh, dear, I have thought it all out. You were not of my kind. It
fretted me at first. You were always a little lady, doing things in a
nicer way than most girls, and you were forever reading and studying. If
we could have kept the boarding house," in tones of regret, "but there
was my long illness and the house was sold torn down for a great
factory. Then I took up the sewing. It was easier in some ways. I liked
Sally Marks and her mother so much. The gay jolliness and the merry
chat. They were like two girls together. But your heart was set on the
High School. Oh, Lilian, do believe I would have kept you there if I
could. Then I began to wonder what your own mother and father had been
like, and if your father was alive. Perhaps he could have done much
better for you. The thought wore on me, and I was not well; I knew that.
You see I should have had a girl who did not mind working in a shop and
enjoying good times with other girls, going to parties and picnics and
having lovers and marrying as I did, and having babies. I loved babies
so. To be a grandmother to a little flock seemed very heaven to me."
"Oh, mother, don't! You will break my heart," sobbed Lilian.
"No, child, you were not to blame. God gave you all these high thoughts
and ambitions; I never had any of them, and after we came here I
understood it still better. You belonged to these kind of people, your
ways were theirs, your ambition was right, and I was very thankful that
such a refuge opened for us. You have been a good, devoted child.
Tomorrow we will talk it over again. Now will you send for some toast
and eat. Oh, Lilian, child, don't cry. God will bring you out right and
forgive me for what I did out of longing love."
Lilian turned, Miss Arran took a step forward. "I will bring it to you,"
she said, and she motioned to Mrs. Dane who stood like a statue.
"Let us go to Mrs. Barrington. She must know this," she whispered.
Lilian bathed her face and readjusted her mother's pillows. The whole
world seemed in a daze about her. Yet she was not so much surprised
either, but stunned, incapable now of judging whether there had been any
right or wrong. If no one belonging to her had been found--and her own
mother was among the killed, she might have been turned over to some
foundling asylum.
"I feel much better," exclaimed Mrs. Boyd. "But, oh, Lilian, don't pray
for me to live, for I should be a helpless burden on you, and I'll have
my two own babies in heaven. I meant to do it for the best when I
claimed you, and I think God will understand. It's been a poor, broken
sort of life but I've tried to do up to the lights I had, and yours will
be better, higher. Mrs. Barrington appreciated you and will help you.
God surely opened this way for us."
Was it truly of God's providence? She had longed so ardently for the
refinements of life, the possibilities of education. Some times it
seemed as if He answered petitions in the suppliant's way and freighted
them with another burden.
But if this should be laid upon her she would pray for strength to do
her whole duty. It was hardly likely she would ever find any one
belonging to her, that was too wild a thought. She would keep this
generous foster mother as long as she needed love and care.