PARENTAGE OF MIKE AND JUDY
The young pair had been in the city only a few days when, after diligent
inquiries in all possible directions, O’Melaghlin heard a rumor of a
rich new field of gold in the Black Rock Ridges, some fifty miles from
the city, and of a party of adventurers about forming to start for that
point.
O’Melaghlin determined to join that expedition.
His young wife, Moira, was much too delicate just at this time to
accompany him.
He left her at the hotel with nearly all the little money he had to bear
her expenses during his absence, which he promised should be as short as
possible.
He said he would come back to see her about the time she might be able
to return with him.
Then he went away, and Moira remained at the hotel.
It seemed a cruel act so to leave a young wife, who was expecting within
four or five weeks to become a mother; but The O’Melaghlin had the gold
fever in its most malignant form, and had even infected her with the
fell disease.
She also had feverish and delirious hallucinations concerning the
imaginary golden days that were dawning upon them, of which, indeed, her
present elegant and luxurious surroundings in this palace hotel seemed a
prophecy and a foretaste. Never in her life had Moira seen, dreamed or
imagined such magnificence as this public house presented to her. And to
make such a superb style of living their own for life was worth some
present sacrifice of each other’s society for a little while. So she
willingly let her husband depart with the gold-seekers, and whenever she
felt very lonesome without him she just shut her eyes and called up the
inward vision of the gorgeous future.
Yet there were moods in which she grew too deeply impressed to look
beyond the immediate, impending trial, bringing certain pain and danger
and possible death before giving her, if it should ever give her, the
crown of a woman’s life—maternity.
She had made some few pleasant acquaintances among the ladies who were
boarding at the hotel, and who were charmed by the artless and confiding
manners of this beautiful wild Irish girl—or child-woman. And when they
discovered her fears they laughed her into courage again, telling her
that such dark forebodings as hers were quite an indispensable part of
the program, and every mother among them all had been through it. And
they spoke the truth, as every doctor knows.
But this hotel was a house patronized by travelers and transient
boarders only.
The ladies who had made Moira’s acquaintance and become her friends one
after another went their way, and she was left alone.
True, others came. Every day they came and went. Some stayed a few
hours; some stayed a few days. Among these were women who would have
been very kind to the lonely young stranger if they had had the chance.
But they had not. They never saw her, or saw to notice her.
With her increasing infirmities, the young wife, when daily expecting to
become a mother, grew very shy and timid. She seldom went down into the
ladies’ parlor—that neutral ground upon which acquaintances are
sometimes made, and even friendships occasionally formed; and when she
did go for a little change, she would conceal herself between the
curtain and sash of some front window, and so, hidden from the company,
look out upon the brilliant life of Sacramento Street until the utter
weariness that now so frequently overcame her strength compelled her to
creep away to the repose of her own private apartment.
Toward the last of her life she gave up entirely going to the ladies’
parlor, and confined her walk to the stairs and halls between her
bedchamber and the public dining-room.
This walk was her only exercise, her only change of scene, and she
continued it daily to the last day of her life.
She made no new acquaintances in place of those who had gone away. She
had no friend except an humble one in the chambermaid who attended to
her room. In many respects she was worse off in this elegant and
luxurious house than she would have been in the rudest log cabin of a
mining camp, for here, though she had everything else, she lacked what
she would have got there—human companionship and sympathy.
Often she longed—wildly longed—to see or hear from her husband, but knew
that it was impossible for her to do so.
Yet she had one great stay and comfort—her Christian faith. She was
devoutly religious and spent much time in her room in reading the Bible,
or some book of devotion, or in prayer, or in singing in a low tone some
favorite hymn.
So the time passed until about six weeks after The O’Melaghlin had gone
away to seek his fortune, when there came a change. She fell too ill to
go down to dinner that evening.
The friendly chambermaid, who volunteered to bring her a cup of tea,
also offered to spend the night with her.
Moira gratefully accepted these services.
Before midnight the girl had to call the night watchman and get him to
send a messenger out for the nearest physician, who came promptly in
answer to the call.
Moira saw the sun rise once more for the last time. Then she died,
leaving behind her a pair of healthy twins—a boy and a girl.
Her death was so sudden, so unexpected, that it seemed as if a bright,
strong torch had been instantly inverted and extinguished.
Then there was a commotion and a sensation in the hotel.
Where was the husband of the dead woman, the father of the motherless
babes?
The office book was searched to see who was the party who had taken Room
777 seven weeks previous, and the register showed the name of T. O.
Mannikin and wife, Ogly, Ireland. This was the manner in which the
hurried clerk of the hotel had heard and entered the name and address of
The O’Melaghlin.
The attendant physician gave his certificate as to the natural cause of
death, so that there was no need of a coroner’s inquest.
But there had to be a thorough search made through the effects of the
dead woman for clews to friends or relatives, who should be notified of
her decease.
Nothing was found; not a letter, not even a line of writing except those
of the receipts, for she had paid punctually every week up to the
Saturday before her fatal illness. The poor young pair had no
correspondents anywhere.
Nor was there any money found. Her very last dollar had been paid away
for her last week’s board, and there was nothing left to satisfy the
claims of the doctor or the nurse, to pay the funeral expenses or to
provide for the orphan twins.
There was no end of gossip in the house. Dress, fashion, operas, even
mining stocks were temporarily forgotten in the discussion of this sad
and strange event. It was then decided among the worldly wise that the
name Mannikin was only an assumed one, that the husband had deserted the
wife, or more probably, the destroyer had abandoned his prey.
Human nature, sinful as it is called, is nowhere quite heartless.
A purse was made up among the people of the house to defray the expenses
of the young stranger’s funeral. And on the fifth day after her death
her remains were laid in the Lone Mountain Cemetery.
The motherless babes were taken in charge by the monthly nurse, a Mrs.
Mally, who, in a fit of benevolence that did not last long, adopted them
and carried them to her own home.
The personal effects of the poor dead young mother, which were not of
much value indeed, but which might have been detained by the proprietors
of the hotel for the last few days of unpaid board, were given by them
into the keeping of Nurse Mally, either for the benefit of the babes or
of any claimant who might prove to have the best right to them.
As for the ministering physician, like most of the men of his humane
profession, he waived all claim to remuneration for his services.
Mrs. Mally soon found the pursuit of her own regular calling and the
care of the orphaned infants too much for her “nerves.”
Sin is the outcome of so many causes—hereditary, taint, faulty training,
temptation and opportunity.
Mrs. Mally was affected by all these. She slowly made up her mind to
keep the dead mother’s wardrobe, trinkets and books and to dispose of
the babies. She would not hurt them; not for the world! But she would
put them in a haven where, in truth, they would be much better taken
care of than by any poor, hard-working woman like herself.
So one evening she dressed them in their very best clothes and gave them
each a dose of paregoric, not enough to endanger their little lives—she
knew her business too well for that—but to put them into a deep sleep.
When it was dark she got a large market basket with a strong handle,
folded a clean cradle blanket and laid it in the bottom of it, took
another little blanket and laid it in loose so that its edges came up
over those of the receptacle.
Then she wrapped the sleeping babies up carefully, put them in the
bottom, laid comfortably at each end with their feet passing each other
in the middle, covered them over with the double folds of the upper
blanket, and so done up like a pastry cook’s turn-over pie, she took
them in the basket on her arm and carried them out into the dimly
lighted back streets and off into the country to the infant asylum of
the Holy Maternity. She had not far to go. When she reached the gate,
which stood always open for the reception of such piteous little human
waifs as infant outcasts, she went in and up to the gable end of the
building, where stood the cage to receive the poor, naked, fatherless,
motherless human birdlings. It was a large oriel window, about breast
high from the ground.
She rang the bell at the side of the window. It swung open and around,
bearing attached on its inner side a soft, warm nest, or small cradle.
Mrs. Mally took the sleeping infants from the basket, one by one, and
placed them in the nest, tucked them snugly in, put the two cradle
blankets, folded, over them, and then rang the bell again. The
window-sash with the nest swung round and inward, and so the abandoned
babes were received within the sheltering arm of the “Holy Maternity,”
and no questions asked. We know the rest of their lives so far as they
have yet lived.
Mrs. Mally went home with her empty basket, and that night missed the
babes so much that she wept with contrition and loneliness.
The next day she hunted up every article of infant wear belonging to the
twins, washed and ironed all that was soiled, then packed them into the
basket, and when night came she went once more to the asylum and rang at
the receiving window. Again the nest swung outward, and she put into it,
no baby, but a quantity of babies’ clothing, then rang the bell again
and the offering was swung inward.
Then Mrs. Mally went home with the empty basket, relieved.
During all this time The O’Melaghlin lay ill of a long, lingering fever
in the mining camp under the shadow of the great Black Rock Ridges.
He had not been utterly unsuccessful during the first days of trial
before he succumbed to the fierce onset of his disease. He was as kindly
cared for by his companions as circumstances would permit. He had no
orthodox medical attendance. A Mexican Indian, an herb doctress, came
and nursed him. Her simple ministrations, with the aid of pure air, pure
water, nature and a good constitution, saved his life.
But his great mental trouble of anxiety to see or hear from his young
wife, left alone in the city hotel, tended to retard his recovery, which
was very tedious.
His mates had prospered in their search for gold. The mine promised to
hold out, and not run out as so many did. So, finding that the sick
man’s anxiety to see his young wife far outweighed his craving for the
gold mine, they made up a liberal purse among themselves to send him on
his way rejoicing.
As soon as he was able to walk he set out on foot from the mining camp.
He was accompanied half a day’s journey by a couple of his companions,
who brought him as far as a friendly Indian’s hut and there bade him
good-by, leaving him to rest for the afternoon and spend the night,
while they retraced their steps to the mining camp.
Early the next morning The O’Melaghlin resumed his journey and dragged
himself by slow stages of ten or fifteen miles a day, stopping at night
in miner’s, hunter’s or Indian’s hut, according as either offered
shelter near the close of evening.
And so at length he reached the city late one autumn night, and went
straight to the hotel where he had left his young wife.
There he learned that she had been dead and buried for more than a month
past, and that the twins to which she had given birth were in the care
of the professional nurse, Mrs. Mandy Mally, of Cyprus Lane.
But he scarcely heard this last item of intelligence.
The shock of the first fatal news, coming as it did after the wasting of
his long illness and the weariness of his long tramp, quite overwhelmed
The O’Melaghlin.
He fell senseless to the floor.
He was taken up and sent to the casual ward of a public hospital, where
he suffered a severe relapse that confined him to his bed for many
weeks.
Upon his second recovery, as soon as he was discharged from the hospital
he went in search of the monthly nurse who had taken charge of poor
Moira’s babes.
He found the woman in a very small house in a very narrow back street.
She looked scared when she was confronted with the father of the
children whom she had sent away.
But she soon recovered her self-control. She told him how she had
disposed of the children, and excused herself by calling his attention
to the poverty of herself, her house and her surroundings, and to the
necessity of her going out to work.
The O’Melaghlin accepted all her apologies. He did not blame her in the
least. He thought it best for the children to be under the care of the
Sisterhood of the Holy Maternity; and he told her so.
He left the nurse, and went out to find some cheap lodgings where he
could hide himself and his misery for a few days until he should be able
to come to some understanding with himself and strike out some plan for
the future.
He wished to go and see his children at the asylum, and yet he dreaded
the trial; he could not get up resolution to do so. They had been the
cause—though the innocent one—of their mother’s death, and so he shrank
from looking upon their infant faces.
Besides, the pride of The O’Melaghlin winced at the thought of going and
facing the Sisters of that house and owning himself the father of those
destitute infants, without either taking them away at once or making
some provision for their support in the institution; and he could
neither take charge of them himself nor provide for them anywhere. He
was at this time too bitterly poor.
No, he said to himself, he could do no better for the children than to
leave them there in that safe, happy and Christian home. He would keep
track of them, he told himself, and if ever he should be able he would
take them away.
And without ever having looked upon the faces of his children he left
California for Australia, shipping himself as a man before the mast on a
large merchantman bound from San Francisco to Sydney.
I must hasten over the remainder of The O’Melaghlin’s story.
From the day of his embarkation for Australia he became a wanderer over
the face of the earth, chiefly among the mines. His gold fever,
suspended for a time by his grief for the loss of his wife, revived with
tenfold force, so that “the last state of that man was worse than the
first.”
He visited Australia, Tasmania, the Sandwich Islands, New Zealand, Cape
Colony and other places, but finally returned to Australia, where at
last he found fortune.
By the mere accident of idly poking his staff in the ground one day
while sitting down to rest, on his way through the bush, he struck
ore—rich gold—that turned out one of the greatest mines in that region.
It would be tedious to tell all the processes by which he realized a
colossal fortune, or by what slow degrees he returned to the worthy
ambition of his youth to restore the fortunes of his family by
repurchasing, at any advance of price, their lost land, and rebuilding,
at any cost, their ruined castle.
When he had renewed his resolution to do all this, he first thought of
getting married to perpetuate the house of O’Melaghlin—although at this
period of his life he was not at all a marrying man, preferring “the
free, unhoused condition” of a bachelor. Then suddenly he recalled to
mind his deserted and almost forgotten children. If these were living he
had a son and a daughter to carry down his name to the future; for
should his son be dead and his girl living, whoever should marry the
heiress of The O’Melaghlin must take the name of O’Melaghlin.
So, should either of his long neglected children be living, he need not
be driven to get married at all—which would be a great relief.
He settled up all his affairs in Australia and sailed for California.
When he reached San Francisco he went immediately to the asylum where
his children had been received.
I need not follow the father in every step of the weary search he had in
tracing them from the asylum to their places of apprenticeship; from
these places—with the aid of skilful detectives—to the mining camp of
Grizzly Gulch, from that to the fort and thence to New York.
In New York, from the Wallings, he heard the most satisfactory news of
both, but especially of the daughter, who, he was told, had married a
wealthy young Englishman of ancient family and of large landed estate,
and who had gone to England with her husband, taking her brother along
with them.
Mr. Walling could not give the inquiring father the address of the young
people, whom he believed to be somewhere in London, living quietly, and
pursuing their studies to make up for their long neglected education.
But he referred The O’Melaghlin to Mr. Cleve Stuart, of Wolfscliff, West
Virginia, who would be able to satisfy him on every point.
The O’Melaghlin, having nearly four weeks of time on hand before the
sailing of the steamer, which was the first on which he could secure a
passage to Liverpool, resolved, instead of writing for information from
Mr. Stuart, to go down to Wolfscliff and have a personal interview with
the parties who had been intimate with his son and daughter, and who
would be able to give him every particular of their character, personal
appearance and history.
And so, as has been seen, he came to Wolfscliff.
The O’Melaghlin was deeply pleased with every circumstance of his
reception there; with the cordial welcome of the young master and
mistress of the house, with the discovery which he honestly thought he
had made of a worthy kinsman in the person of Cleve Stuart, a
descendant, as O’Melaghlin himself claimed to be, on his mother’s side,
of the royal house of Scotland.
But more than all was he pleased with the account he heard from his host
and hostess of his long neglected son and daughter.
“You will be hearing from these young people every week, will ye not,
Wolfscliff?” he inquired that evening, after having finished his story.
“My wife hears from her cousin Judith by almost every English mail,”
answered Cleve.
“And you’ll be getting a letter in a day or so?”
“Yes, most likely.”
“And, of course, answering it?”
“Of course! That is, my wife will! As I hinted before, the
correspondence of the two families is kept up by Palma and Judith.”
“Ah! So then you are the scribe, Mistress Stuart?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Palma, smiling.
“And you are thinking, ma’am, what a grand piece of news you will have
to tell your friend in your very next letter.”
“Indeed, I am thinking of just such a delight!” exclaimed Palma, her
eyes fairly dancing with anticipation.
“Then I am almost sorry to debar you from such a pleasure, ma’am, but I
must beseech you not to make known my existence to my son and daughter
until we meet them in England face to face,” said O’Melaghlin solemnly.
“Oh!” exclaimed Palma, with a look of great disappointment.
“I have good reasons for my request, and I will tell them to you. Your
husband, my friend Wolfscliff there, will understand them. I wish to be
introduced to the young ones simply as The O’Melaghlin. They have
probably never heard that name before in all their lives. They can never
suspect its connection with themselves——”
“Do I understand you really, O’Melaghlin? Do you wish to be presented as
a stranger to your own son and daughter?” inquired Stuart in perplexity.
“That is just exactly what I do wish,” replied the Irishman.
“But why?” inquired Stuart, while Palma looked the same question with
great, dilated eyes.
“In the first place, I wish to make a quiet observation of them while
yet they consider me a mere ordinary, uninteresting stranger, with whom
they can be at perfect ease, and show themselves as they really are with
perfect freedom.”
“But don’t you suppose they could do that with their own father, knowing
him to be their father who had come to seek them out, to find them, to
make up to them—and to himself as well—for their long separation from
him—don’t you suppose they could feel at ease and act with freedom in
the presence of such a father?” demanded Stuart.
“No, I don’t!” emphatically retorted The O’Melaghlin. “Under the
circumstances, I don’t believe they could either feel easy or behave
naturally. They would be so surprised, so amazed——”
“But if they were carefully prepared for the meeting beforehand,”
suggested Stuart.
“I doubt if you could prepare them for so strange a meeting. But
granting that you could, still they would be so filled with wonder and
curiosity, so anxious to do their duty, so eager to make a good
impression, that, as I said before, it would be impossible for them to
feel comfortably or behave naturally. No, you must present me to your
friends, Mr. and Mrs. Randolph Hay, simply as your kinsman, The
O’Melaghlin of Arghalee. You may write and ask permission to bring your
kinsman to Haymore Hall,” concluded the chieftain.
“It would not be necessary to ask permission. Indeed, it would hurt my
friend Ran for me to do so. He would have us all treat his house as our
own and bring whom we pleased, without ceremony, taking much more than
his permission for granted, even taking his delight to welcome any of
our friends, for granted,” replied Stuart.
“Ah, then, sure he is a whole-souled, great-hearted fellow, this husband
of my Judy! This son-in-law of my own! And I shall be proud to make his
acquaintance. Troth, he should have been an Irishman!” warmly exclaimed
The O’Melaghlin. “And now,” he added, turning suddenly around to Palma,
“do you understand, ma’am, why I wish to meet my son and daughter as a
stranger, and to observe them for a whole day or an evening before
making myself known to them?”
“Perfectly, Mr. O’Melaghlin. And I think you are quite right,” warmly
responded Palma.
“I thank you, ma’am, for your indorsement of my judgment. And now, my
dear young lady, will you oblige me in one small matter?” he gravely
inquired.
“In anything, great or small, that lies within my power, Mr.
O’Melaghlin,” smiled Palma.
“Then, my dear young lady, will you graciously drop the ‘mister’ before
my name?”
Palma looked up in questioning surprise.
“I will explain, my dear madam. The O’Melaghlins have been The
O’Melaghlins from time immemorial, as I had the honor to tell you
before. They were monarchs of Meath for many centuries; but they were
never ‘mister,’ like any ordinary Smith, Jones, or Brown, or Anybody.
So, my fair kinswoman, you will please to oblige me by dropping that
little prefix to my old historic name.”
“But, Mr.—I beg pardon. But, sir, if I must not call you ‘mister,’ how
shall I address you or speak of you?” inquired the bewildered young
woman.
“Simply as O’Melaghlin, or The O’Melaghlin. My dear, how would you speak
of or address Julius Cæsar, Marc Antony, or Alexander the Great? Would
you say ‘Mr.’ Julius Cæsar? ‘Mr.’ Marc Antony? No, you would not. And no
more should you say Mr. O’Melaghlin. There are family names, my dear
lady, that outrank not only the little prefix of ‘mister,’ but all
titles, and such a name is that of The O’Melaghlin,” solemnly concluded
the chieftain.
“Very well, O’Melaghlin,” laughed Palma, “I will hereafter always
remember to call you O’Melaghlin, though, indeed, it will make me feel
like a very fast young woman, and just as if I had a jockey cap on my
head and a cigar in my mouth.”
“I wish to be enlightened,” said Stuart, with a smile. “You call me
‘Wolfscliff.’ Why, upon the same principle, do you not call yourself
Arghalee?”
The chieftain drew himself up with a royal air and replied majestically:
“Because, sir, The O’Melaghlin ranks the territorial title of Arghalee,
as it ranks every other title!”
“Does not the royal name of Stuart rank Wolfscliff?”
“It would; but there are thousands of Stuarts, and you are only one of
them, and derive your individual distinction from your manor. You are
Stuart, of Wolfscliff. There is but one O’Melaghlin. I am The
O’Melaghlin.”
“And your son?”
“He is Michael O’Melaghlin. When he succeeds me he will be The
O’Melaghlin.”
“I see!” said Stuart, with a smile.
But I doubt if he did see.