STANDING UP TO THE MARK
Lilian Boyd bathed her mother's face and hands as usual and prepared her
breakfast. Her eyes were brighter, her voice stronger, but the girl
noticed that her face seemed a little swollen and the lines about her
mouth had lost their flexibility.
"You are surely better. You have more appetite," yet the tone was not
hopeful.
"Oh, my dear, it is nearer the end, and it is best. You will do better
without me, and what if you should find someone--a father to be proud of
you? Such things have happened, and I may have kept you out of something
that was your right. Oh, will God forgive me?"
Lilian caught the thin hand and pressed it to her lips.
"Mother, you must not worry about this. Suppose my own mother was a
widow like you going to a new home to earn her living. Why, I might have
been put in some Children's Asylum. And I have had many comforts and a
love willing to make sacrifices. I have been a dreamy girl building air
castles for the future, but I would have worked hard to make them real.
I see now how much is needed and I am not afraid----"
"Oh, if I could think you had lost nothing through my selfish love----"
"But it was your friend who sent us here. And you are not sorry we
came?"
"Oh, my child, it was truly God's providence. Mrs. Barrington has been
so good. She will help you to attain your best aims. Since we have been
here I have realized the difference between us that I only felt vaguely
before. You belong to these people. You have their ways and it is not
all education, either. This is why I feel your people could not have
been in the common walks of life."
She paused, exhausted.
"Now, you must not talk any more but try to sleep. Shall I read to you?"
"No, not now. Oh, Lilian, you will not tire of me? You will not leave
me? It cannot be long----"
"No, no, and this will be my home. Let that comfort you."
Lilian took up some embroidery. Mrs. Barrington had merely looked in to
inquire. How still the house seemed, and she was in a highly nervous
mood. What if Major Crawford should not believe the story? Well, Lilian
Boyd should never know how near she had come to being a heroine of
romance, and she should achieve some of her desires.
Mrs. Boyd drowsed. Yes, it was really the providence of God that she
should be removed. She would always have the things she most desired,
which she, Mrs. Boyd could not have given her in the pretty home Lilian
had been planning. She had been happy with her lover, then her husband.
But, Lilian would shrink from the kiss of the grimy man fresh from his
hard work, and after his brief ablutions, sitting down to supper in his
shirt sleeves and then lighting his pipe and pushing his baby up and
down the front walk, jesting and laughing with the neighbors. There were
blocks of them, most of them happy women, too, except when the babies
came too fast or died out of their arms. And a few games of cards in the
evening, a play now and then merry enough to keep one laughing. No, it
would never have done for Lilian.
And she would feel out of place in the life to which the girl aspired.
She would never get quite at ease with these refined friends whose talk
was of books and music and the part great men and women were playing in
the world.
How many times does one have a foreshadowing of the real things that
affect life! One may be heavy hearted for days groping about fearsomely
and suddenly the cloud lifts without any misfortune. Then swift in the
happiest hour comes the stroke that crushes one. Lilian looked straight
ahead in her life. She would serve her time here and repay Mrs.
Barrington for her generous kindness.
In a lovely old town like Mount Morris, the lines of caste get
unconsciously drawn. Where people have lived hundreds of years and can
trace back to some titled ancestor perhaps, where they have never known
the hard grind of poverty, but have worked on the higher lines. There
had been several noted clergymen, two bishops, scholars, senators and
even an ambassador abroad. There was no especial pride in this, it was
simply what was to be expected of sons growing up in this refined,
upright and moral atmosphere. But they sometimes passed rather proudly
by those of the next lower round who bent their energies to money
making.
Lilian had soon come to understand that and her personal pride kept her
aloof from any chance of snubs. But she would want a wider world
presently that was not bounded by a grandfather or a fortune that had
descended through generations.
There were moments when Mrs. Boyd's confession seemed a feverish dream.
She did not dare build anything on it, because she had indulged in some
romantic dreams and longings, because there had been wounded vanity
almost to a sense of shame, she held herself to a strict account. No
matter what she might gain here, she would always be considered Mrs.
Boyd's daughter. She had not expected to be received with the young
ladies of the school, and had taken no notice of the little rudenesses
that might have had a better excuse if she had been trying to crowd in.
So all the refinements of birth and education did not always conduce to
the higher generosity of heart.
Miss Arran came gently in the room with an anxious glance toward the
bed.
"Mrs. Barrington wishes to see you in the library, Miss Boyd. I will
stay here with your mother."
Lilian laid down her work as she rose and said: "Mother is asleep now."
Then she went slowly down the wide stairway, her eyes lingering on some
of the panels that had been painted in by a true artist.
"My dear child," the lady said in a voice that seemed full of emotion,
"you must have felt from the beginning that I had taken an unusual
interest in you. You suggested some person that I could not quite place,
but came to know afterward that it was one of my early scholars, a most
charming girl. She married happily and had two sons, but they both
longed for a daughter. Providence listened to their prayers and sent
them a double portion, two lovely girls. My friend's husband was a
soldier stationed on the frontier and in an Indian raid was quite
severely wounded. It was not deemed best to risk moving him and she
resolved to go out to him. One of the babies, the first born was larger
and stronger than the other, and she determined to take this one with a
most excellent nurse she had. You heard the story Mrs. Boyd told. My
friend was in the same frightful accident--the nurse was killed
outright, but the baby by some miracle had not so much as a scratch. The
only other baby was crushed beyond recognition."
Lilian sprang up, then the room seemed to swim round. She caught at the
chair back to steady herself and gave a great gasp.
"Oh, and my mother, Mrs. Boyd, took the child, but they all thought the
nurse the real mother. And, oh--she could not bear to give up the baby.
Oh, you must forgive her."
"In the confusion I can see that it was very easily done. Dr. Kendricks
went out at once. He found the mother gravely injured and the word was
that the baby was dead. It was beyond recognition. Mrs. Boyd, who had
only been stunned, had gone on her way. You have heard her side of the
story, knowing the other side when Miss Arran detailed it, we sent for
Dr. Kendricks and pieced it all together. You have been so occupied with
your supposed mother, and I must say you have been a devoted daughter,
that you have hardly noted our excitement and interest. The confession
established the facts beyond a doubt in our minds, but we were not sure
how the father would take it. And the place has altered immeasurably;
there have been so many accidents since, that that has passed into
oblivion. But no one can dispute the proof. Your mother was a noticeably
handsome girl; but there is a curious resemblance, and it grows upon
one."
"And I am scarcely handsome at all," the girl said, slowly.
"Have you no curiosity to know whom you belong to?" studying Lilian
intently.
"Oh, I dare not ask, I hardly dare believe! It is so mysterious. She,
yes, I will call her mother, though there might be a father somewhere.
And was that beautiful woman they believed dying----"
Lilian clasped her hands over her eyes. Like a flash it seemed to pass
before her. Zay Crawford's double, some of the girls had called her.
"Oh," she cried, "can I endure it? What if they do not want me?"
"If they had doubted the story it would have been kept from you. Can you
guess--"
Lilian flung herself in Mrs. Barrington's arms, with a long, dry sob.
"Oh, do not give me up," she cried imploringly. "Let me stay with you. I
will serve you faithfully for I love you, and these people are
strangers----"
"Think, what it must be after her years of sorrow to clasp her child in
her arms; to know that it had been well cared for, tenderly loved. Oh,
she is your own mother and you will come to love her dearly. This
morning Dr. Kendricks was to tell Major Crawford the story. Fifteen
minutes ago word came that they would be here. Lilian, your father feels
hard toward Mrs. Boyd. You know Dr. Kendricks would have recognized you
if she had not taken you away, and it is only natural that he should
feel indignant."
"Must I see him before she--she cannot last long. Oh, she must not hear
this, and I will not leave her until the very last."
Then the child suggested her father.
"There they come," exclaimed Mrs. Barrington.
The two men entered the drawing room. Lilian clung to Mrs. Barrington,
but that lady impelled her forward.
"This is your daughter, Major Crawford," she said, "and this, my dear,
is your own father."
Lilian stood like a statue. It was as if she was turning to stone. Oh,
he could not deny her. The clear cut features, the golden bronze hair,
the proud figure that seemed to add dignity to the whole. So, her mother
had stood, in girlhood.
"Oh, my child! my child! have you no word of gladness for me after these
long years! The baby I never saw--my Marguerite."
Was her tongue frozen and her lips stiff? Oh, what should she say? How
could she welcome this stranger?
"And that cruel woman has stolen your love from us, as she stole your
beautiful body. Oh, where is she? Let me see her!"
"You were to keep calm, Major," exclaimed the doctor. "We have gone over
all this, and the poor woman is dying. To upbraid her now would be
nothing short of murder."
The Major glanced wildly around. "Why think of _our_ loss and sorrow.
She _knew_ the child was not hers. And she ran off like a thief in the
night. Oh, I can't forgive her."
"Oh, you must," cried the girl with the first gleam of emotion she had
shown. "For she mistook the nurse for the mother. Everything must have
been in confusion. She thought of me as a motherless baby, perhaps to be
cast on charity----"
"But all these years! And poverty, when a lovely home awaited you;
brothers and a sweet sister and such a mother! Oh, she ought to know and
suffer for the crime."
"She was almost crazy with her own grief. And she was good and tender
and devoted to me. She shall not suffer for it in her dying moments."
She stood there proudly, her face a-light with a sort of heroic
devotion. So her mother would have taken up any wrong. Was he unduly
bitter?
"Oh, my darling, have you no love for me? No want for your own sweet
mother--"
Something in his pleading tone touched her and his face betrayed strong
agitation. His arms seemed to hang listlessly by his side. She took a
few steps toward him and then they suddenly clasped her in a vehement
embrace.
The doctor glanced at Mrs. Barrington and they both left the room.
"It has been a hard fight," he said. "He was so enraged at first that I
was afraid he would come and have it out with the dying woman. The fact
that she knew the child was not hers and yet took it away seemed to stir
all the blood in his body. Poor thing--one has to feel sorry for her;
but he raged over the privations he thought his child had endured, and
her being here in an equivocal position. The Crawfords were always very
proud. And one could not expect a girl just in the dawn of womanhood to
fly to a stranger's arms."
"Yet it took her so by surprise, and she has a proud, reticent nature."
"Let us go and see Mrs. Boyd."
Major Crawford felt the girl's heart beating against his own. He raised
the face and kissed it, amid tears, deeply touched.
"You must forgive me. You do not know what it is to have some one stand
between you and your child all these years. I used to dream how it would
have been with twin girls running about, climbing one's knees, doing a
hundred sweet and tender things. Zay has been so lovely, so loving; but
all these years we never forgot you. We gave the most fervent thanks for
your mother's recovery, and when you are safe in her arms--oh, it seems
almost as if it was too much joy."
"It is so strange," and her voice was tremulous. "For I never could have
dreamed of anything like this. I did not dream, for it seemed as if a
man who had lost wife and child would want to begin over again, and in a
good many ways I tried to believe I had been too visionary--longing for
things quite beyond my reach. So I have been praying that God would send
what was best for me and trying to make myself content. Oh, are you
quite sure there is no mistake?" and there was a pitifully beseeching
sound in her voice.
"If we can believe that thief of a woman. Oh, to think she should carry
away our baby and leave us her little dead child," and the only half
conquered passion flamed up in his face again.
"But, you see, if I had been the nurse's child as she thought, the poor
nurse who was dead, it would be a brave and tender act----"
"I have no pity for her. You must come away. Oh, Marguerite, there is
your own sweet mother, who when she hears will want to clasp you to her
heart at once. And Zaidee, your twin sister----"
She shrank and stiffened a little. Zaidee Crawford would not be so glad
to welcome her. She felt it in her inmost heart. For she had been the
pet and darling of the household all these years. All the girls had paid
her a curious sort of homage. She had been invested with a halo of
romance, and generous as she seemed with her equals, she had established
a rigorous distance between them. Lilian fancied she was annoyed by the
suggestion of a resemblance between them.
Her father was momentarily piqued by the unyielding lines of her figure
and the hesitancy.
"Oh, my child you must take in the strength, the absolute reality of our
claim, unless you cannot believe this woman--"
"I would stake my very life on her truth, and I can recall so many
things that seemed strange to me then, especially these last two years.
She so dreaded leaving me alone in the world, and I am not willing to
embitter her last moments. You see she never thought of my parents being
in a much higher walk in life, and the knowledge that she had kept me
out of so much would be a cruel stab. No, let me wait until it is all
over, and you have accepted the strange story truly. There are others
beside yourself----"
Her eyes were full of tears as she raised them. It _was_ noble to take
this view, though he really grudged it.
"You mean then to stay here until--"
"I have promised sacredly, solemnly. There may be some things to
certify. Mrs. Barrington spoke of one, that the confession, ought to be
signed before witnesses."
"Yes, though we should never doubt. And if there was any question there
might be a legal adoption;" then he paused. His wife had not heard the
story yet. Yes, his anger had hurried him along with scarcely a thought
of all that needed to be done. He had dreamed of the joy of bringing the
mother and daughter together. Yes, she must be prepared.
"Perhaps you are right," he admitted, reluctantly. "Yet--oh, how can I
leave you. It seems as if the joy would vanish."
"I do not think I shall vanish," and she half smiled through her tears.
The doctor came downstairs with a grave face.
"There has been a sudden change. The paralysis has crept upward. She is
moaning for you. Go to her."
Lilian flashed out of the room.
"Are you convinced?" asked the doctor.
"Oh, positively. And what a noble girl! I hate to have her love that
woman so, and yet it shows a true and generous nature. Why, I think some
girls would have gone wild over the prospect."
"Mrs. Barrington is enthusiastic about her and she has had a wide
experience with girls. But my dear Major, there is a good deal to be
done. Your wife must hear the story, and we must consider _her_ health,
her nervous system must not have too severe a shock. And this Mrs. Boyd
must attest her confession in some way. She can hardly speak
intelligibly. With your permission, I'll hunt up Ledwith. It's best to
have everything secure."
"Yes, yes. And, doctor, I want to apologize for my anger and unreason
this morning. Why, we are half brutes after all. I believe I could have
almost murdered that woman for stealing my darling baby and sneaking off
without a word of inquiry. I do not yet see how Marguerite can forgive
her for keeping her out off her birthright all these years; for dragging
her through poverty and all kinds of menial labor; and here she was the
caretaker's daughter! Think of it--my child, Zay's sister! Even now when
the child pleads for her so earnestly I cannot really forgive her. Will
you pardon me for my outbreak? My child is tenderer and more generous
than I."
"The poor woman has come to the last stages. It is a matter of only a
few days. It would be cruel to part them now."
"You are all against me," with a sad smile.
"You must go home and explain this matter to Mrs. Crawford, and to your
sister. Then send the confession to Ledwith. I will see him. And, oh, I
promised to drop in and see Zay. She has some nervous crochet in her
head."
"Is she really ill?" the father asked in alarm.
"She has some cold and a little fever. Don't excite her."
They walked away together. The doctor found Zay's fever much higher and
she was in a state of great excitement.
"Oh, what has happened," she cried. "What was papa so angry about? And
you took him away----"
"A matter of business that he could not look at reasonably at first. And
it may be a delightful surprise for you, so you must do your utmost to
get well. Men have many bothers, my dear."
"It was not about Vincent?"
"Oh, dear, no. There was a telegram from him. He reached West Point all
right, and all is going well. Now, I shall give you a composing draught
and order you to sleep all the afternoon."
"And the fever?" tremulously.
"That's simply cold and nervousness. You will be about well tomorrow,"
and he laughed.
"Mrs. Barrington was--oh, I suppose the girls who stayed had a dull
time."
"I didn't hear any complaints. I guess they are all right. Don't you
worry about them or anybody."
If she could hear that Louie Howe was well; maybe Phil would write
tomorrow. Oh, she couldn't be seriously ill or the doctor wouldn't be so
indifferent about it. If she only could go to sleep and forget about the
Clairvoyant's awful den!